Getting To Even

God doesn’t play dice, I do

Kalani Perry — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 20:44:07 +0000

I found Kay last night with a Google search by proxy, still esconced sixty miles north, in some cell or other. Three stories above West Central Avenue in a town called Belton she rots unaware of the effort. Last we spoke, she was wistful, but somewhat hopeful and somewhat wishful for a misdemeanor sentence of time served. Seems fair enough to me; her charge of family violence no doubt a delayed rage against some historical violence inflicted upon her.

She bristles at pity and prances with the bravado common to those familiar with trauma and its post-traumatic syndrome. In her dewy, melancholy eyes the pain is clear. The first night I met her she was all fists and spitballs, a beautiful refugee from her redneck past, though she still retained the accent.

I vowed to take care of her in those first moments, though she, predictably, provoked other less noble stirrings. Dressed like a slut trying to be slutty in a skin-tight, midriff-baring tank and shorts spray painted over ass and mons and little more. She wore a cast on her leg, several bruises and self-inflicted scratches looking to me like perfect trouble. But when she opened up her mouth and that sweet voice came out, I lost track of my own name.

And so I found a project bigger than myself that let me not think about myself or, in fact, do anything to help myself, at least for the moment. I had Kay to care for and through her I would find the absolution that had eluded me these last three lost years.

And, of course–now being committed– that’s when she told me about The Voice.

The Wave revisited (again)

Kalani Perry — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 18:17:00 +0000

The last two times I ran away, my sprints ended in your arms. At Tampa International and an abandoned Greyhound terminal in Ocala. Not quite St. Pete or even New Port Richey, but close enough for my geographic explanations to others. Your nickname in jail then, not surprisingly, was Florida. It was easier than Happy Kill and, of course, no one there could possibly make the reference.

I love the fact that we have decades of history from which to draw an esoteric language. I love the fact that you call me by my name only when you’re angry. (Even then you never quite finish the third syllable.) With you, it is (and always has been) just, “K.” I love the fact that I know these facts. It’s reassuring. How well we know each other, how easily we always seem to fall into each other.

You were little more than a girl when I met you–just five years older than your oldest child is now. We were both kids then, playing adult in our newly adult bodies. Traipsing along the waterfront in Waikiki, ruling Ke’eaumoku and Kalakaua, Kuhio and Ena Road. The Hideaway’s still there. So is Studio 54 (but with a different name). The Wave–the background set to so many of our triumphs and tragedies–is many years gone, however. Just a memory to those like you that made the scene, and those like me who rode your coattails to the front of the line and upstairs as a VIP.

You and I have lived at least four lives together, and many more separated. And now, after all this time we find ourselves together again. More precisely, together apart.

How is it possible that in January 1998 I slammed a door in your face then hung up on you two days later when you called to ask me for $300? The end was always bad for us. Of course, I never forgot you. What I still can’t explain is that you never forgot me. Everything I know of love–good and bad–I learned at your feet. But what was I for you?

What a pain in the ass I must have been, so naïve and pathetically new to everything. What a pain in the ass I must be now, never quite having grown up. And for the life of me, I don’t know what to do. Tell me, Merry, Where do we go now? Are we to gamble the status quo of our lives that the fifth time will be a charm? Are you willing to sacrifice everything against the struggle for a work of consequence?

Tell me, Merry. Where do we go?

One for the ages

Kalani Perry — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 19:43:00 +0000

So much of my reflection has focused on the dissolution of our love. You’d never know that at one time it was truly one for the ages. I confess that for months now I’ve chosen to tread water and stay stuck in the original wreckage of our hopes. That pain has acted as my muse in your absence. Cynicism is easier to spot through tears and sounds better lashed out. But oh! what a starburst magic was our love last Spring. And the endless odes typed and penned between us seemed as potent as any ever put to language. It’s hard to reconcile the warm sweetness of last Summer with the cold quick bite of early Fall. But it happened. It happened.

I remember feeling shallow for celebrating so strongly the physical attraction I had for you, Seka. The truth is you were beautiful to me because I best knew how to look at you. (Even you must admit that in your most flattering portraits mine were the hands that held the camera at the correct angle, and mine was the eye staring through the shutter.)

I’m determined to resurrect the best aspects of our love affair as its legacy, to pay forward the myths that you and I created then lived. Here now placed into a centrifuge to isolate the truth from all the devices we put in place to protect our versions of whatever happened.

But there was a time when we spoke with ease and comfort, with lust and tenderness, with joy and intelligence. I refuse to let that die because at the moment things mattered most we both chose, in one way or another, to save ourselves.

9/11

Kalani Perry — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 16:57:17 +0000

A tie that used to bind about this situation, this life, was the dreaded judgment of “what will people think?” This fear that would so often cause the pre-dawn cringing of adrenaline-fueled fluttering in my chest. And now I just don’t give a shit. But in a good way. It’s hard enough to figure out how I feel about what happened without being consumed by a world full of judges making judgments.

It’s embarrassing how much time I’ve spent having conversations with ghosts, real and imagined, explicating circumstances and pointing out my points of view. Exhausting. And a waste. You’re (the royal you) going to feel what you’re going to feel. Didactic dialogue rarely achieves; it usually just delineates the differences. You and me, here and there, us and other. Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy? Unfortunately, that question–and the insight required to ask it–seems to come too often after the choice has already been made.

Let us go back, then, and reflect upon that choice offered and ignored. The worst-case scenario begins that day, September 11, 2009. Via instant messages, tens of thousands of words burst staccato like rubber bullets fired at each other to hurt, if not to kill. Frustrations piled on impotent tools and tactics. Of course, the levee wouldn’t hold.

This was the day I met your mother for the first time and hugged her in the deafening pit next to the band and I took pictures and watched the CD release show at Beauty Bar full of beauty and tragedy and your family up from so near Vider and our only wedding gift and your ex-boyfriend back in town and supernaturally gracious and we argued eight hours until abruptly re-exchanging vows of love and we hadn’t slept in days and, and, and, and, and…I was out of breath surprised and always ready to duck for cover as the inevitable explosion finally exploded. That was my mistake, of course. We had earlier imploded individually, dying on the inside hidden. And in just three and one half weeks, we, us, you and me, would be dead forever.

How the end always is

Kalani Perry — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 21:29:45 +0000

I’m sure you’ve fucked at least a few during our court-ordered separation, but I wonder–I really do–have you once again found love? Have you even tried? I remember a conversation we had last June (I think on the way to Flipnotics, the night Lara met us there) when I warned you about the ends of things. And in my head I could distinctly hear Robert Smith warning us through Disintegration that, “I never said I’d stay till the end.” I swear I could hear it in my head as we spoke and I said something along the lines of, “I don’t know what I’m going to do if I ever lose you.”

“Me neither,” you said. “This is it for me, too. I’m not kidding. If this doesn’t work, I give up forever.” I was your last stand?

“No, really?” You parked. Our eyes met. And it was impossible for me to believe that you could fathom the depths I was moving under. “When it ends, it always ends badly, but what I’ve been through so closely followed by you–what you mean to me–I don’t know if I can take it again.”

“I know I can’t.”

I loved you at that moment like I never had, but you felt to me more like a child than a lover, one who so badly tried to empathize. God, how I had missed even the attempts at empathy! But how could you possibly ever feel what I felt? You had lived your whole life esconced in beauty. Your struggle, if any, was so far removed from mine it may as well have been spoken in a different language. Ironically, I couldn’t empathize. But ah! the effort.

That night the plan had been to initiate a cross-pollination of sorts between you, Lara and me. You knew it. She certainly did. Though I’m sure her attraction to you never went too far beyond what everyone else had always seen. In my distorted reality at the time I thought the fusion of the present and future–with an element from the destructive past–might somehow make things balanced. Some twisted version of karma. Our conversation in the car killed all that and for better or worse, the finite duration of our time together was to be alone. Alone together.

The thread began ripping when that was threatened. How ironic that the seeds were sewn at a company called Renew.

Bad lyrics sometimes feel good

Kalani Perry — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 17:36:18 +0000

What hurt the most shouldn’t have; without access those first few weeks, it wouldn’t have hurt at all. Even after all this time, these months, with shock after shock absorbed, it’s hard to summon the incredulity I felt as I read your words. How completely you sold me out even to people of almost no consequence. (TG? Really?) How quickly you (literally) erased the words of love shared between us, how soon you embraced the verve of partying normalcy (“Halloween party–South Austin, I know it’s late notice, yada, yada”), how eagerly you fell into another’s arms–and he into your legs–before even three weekends had past. You made me feel like saccharine, a bad Alanis Morrisette song (a slap in the face how quickly I was ugh), and for that I can never forgive you.

See? It’s been long enough that I can joke. Truth be told, I joked from day one. (“I love you like punk rock, I miss you like my next breath not taken, I’m sorry like Shania Twain,” remember?) You wanted to smile at the time; in fact, I think you did.

But what where you hiding? What unnamed errands so compelled you to leave that Saturday night? Don’t get me wrong, there were hundreds of moments where I could have eaten my words, swallowed my pride and opened my eyes. And maybe yours. Instead I chose to do nothing. Or, worse yet, to shut them closed.

What hurt the most? It was the juxtaposition of what you had written with what you were writing. It was the sad cynicism of your anti-marriage ranting set against the mad, hopeful optimism of our one-time union. And I couldn’t tell which one was real. Or both. Or neither. This is when I developed the theory of you as a character in a book, play or movie. (You do not exist.)

You are a haphazard amalgam, a poorly organized anthology of traits that I needed–beauty, intelligence, humor (though I rarely remember you laughing, especially sober)–and traits I ignored–addiction, promiscuity, lies–but were never in any real sense a person.

A hypothetical conversation, in medias res, that could have happened just after dusk in late October (22nd) at, I don’t know, Shady Grove on Barton Springs?

Kalani Perry — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 22:27:17 +0000

[...]

“So, I have two theories about what happened.”
“Just two?”
“Two that I ruminate on.”
“You ruminate on everything.”
“Only when I’m running through scenarios.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is. Anyway, the first one is Warren-Commission paranoid, yet strangely plausible.”
“Why is that?”
“Honestly? Linda? Really?”
“Tell me.”
“Everything you’ve ever said to me is in play. Are you really going camping this weekend with your brother and his girlfriend? Are you really going to see your brother after we finish here? Because, I don’t believe you. You didn’t visit your brother once in the six months we lived together and now you’re going to go see him at 9:30 when you have to work tomorrow? Sounds more like a sleepover.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Well, there’s the rub, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That’s what a liar would say. A sociopath would say it as calmly as you just did.”
“So now I’m a sociopath?”
“Technically, if you were, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell me.”
“Always a wise ass. Fine.”
“The second theory I would bet my life that I was correct. And I wouldn’t lose.”
“You’re always so fucking dramatic.”
“I told you that, literally, in the first sentence of the first email I ever wrote to you that wasn’t about contracts.”
“Intense. Needy. Sometimes, intensely needy.”
“You bothered to remember?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“My default answer is ‘The truth.’ But, I wouldn’t believe anything you said at this point anyway. By the way, I brought your book back, the one about Schrödinger’s cat; the one that made me fall in love with you.”
“Keep it.”
“I don’t want it. It hurts to look at.”
“So why are we here, then?”
“You can go if you want.”
“Why are we here?”
“I wanted to look in your eyes when I asked and you answered.”
“What good is that if I’m a sociopath?”
“You’re not. You’re just a liar. And to be honest, you’re not a very good one. Your voice doesn’t break but you always look away. Down, then to the right. Always. I used to play poker, remember?”
“You can be such a fucking asshole.”
“Yes. I really can. So, conspiracy theory number one.”
“This should be good.”
“I’ve seen you fall-down drunk just once, in all the time I’ve known you. In fact, it’s the only time I’ve seen you drunk. On alcohol, anyway.”
“July 4th.”
“Right. All your friends from Beaumont were there. So here’s theory number one. Someone you were pining for, but never thought would pan out, showed up that night. And wanted to hook up. But when he found out you were married, cut you off. So you got drunk. I couldn’t find you for an hour in your sister’s little house. But she knew exactly where you were. And probably why.”
“You really believe that?”
“Everything is in play.”
“Fuck you.”
“If you don’t tell anyone.”
“No, really, fuck you.”
“Wait till you hear number two.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Because you know it’s true. I haven’t even said it yet, and you know it’s true. You remember when you were cheating on John with me?”
“I never cheated.”
“Well, there was no genital exchange, Mrs. Clinton, no blue dress. Technically, you waited until the day after you broke up, but we were cheating and you know it.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever. Did I at least get that day?”
“Make your fucking point already.”
“In retrospect, I realized that we never met at night. It was always during the day, or on the weekends. Or, when you ‘Had to work late,’ during the week. I remember you calling him and telling him while you were sitting with me, speaking as calmly as you are now. Toward the end, with us, remember how many nights you had to work late?”
“I did work late, asshole.”
“I know, it’s probably just a coincidence.”
“Fuck you, I’m leaving.”
“You just looked down, and to the right.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You really expected me to believe that after being unemployed for four months, you would take a 3-hour lunch to see a movie in your first week at work? Oh, and with ‘two’ guys I didn’t know? We all know it was one guy, and since it’s been six months he’s probably already gone as well, but I bet he’s still sniffing around. It’s your fucking M.O. Daytime dates and nighttime betrayals.”
“Stop. Please. Stop.”
“Why did you marry me? Was it for the story? Was it a joke? You always bragged about being a groupie for that comedian. That’s why I thought you found another one. Remember? Things weren’t perfect for two seconds and you bailed. Someone talked you into leaving weeks before you left.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Is there a road back?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I’m glad to see you go.”

You can’t tell people what they want to hear, if you also want to tell the truth

Kalani Perry — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 23:58:46 +0000

Your whole life, if judged by your musical and literary preferences can be interpreted as a celebration of the derivative. Then what are you? What does one call a derivative of a derivative? Here, let’s mock the character list of admired mediocrity.

Muse? The bastard, near-aborted child of U2 and Rush, complete with overstated odes to latent late-teen female angst (you mock Fall Out Boy, but, really, isn’t that just splitting hairs). 311? Enough said. That shitty, fourth-wave ska band from Georgetown? They were much better 20 years ago when they were called Sublime. Quantum mechanics? Explain Schrödinger’s pussy. Ayn Rand? Yeah, right. You finished The Fountainhead? There couldn’t have been time given all the bongs, blow, and blow jobs. Am I really that shallow that my reflection off a beautiful, flawed face was enough of an ego trip to feign substance? I guess love will tear us apart again. And again, apparently.

I’ve been reflecting on the differences. The similarities at one time seemed compelling but are shallow and in their sum are less than this fundamental fact: whatever happened–whatever he did–has pulled up defenses to the point that speaking a painful truth is impossible.

We are, both of us, liars–master manipulators; you with your physical beauty, and contrived erudition, and me with words and swagger. The difference? I know we’re lying.

If this feels like an excoriation, it isn’t. The truth is uncomfortable at first if you’re not used to it. You are a fucking liar. Not for the casual omissions and commissions tossed off to the friends, lovers, and husband that rake the path of your life, but the internal soundtrack you repeat again and again and again. And again. I’m okay. Everything is okay. Things will be okay.

Everything is not okay. Everything is fucked. And until you extricate yourself from the numbing ashes of your nuclear family, beauty-groupies, and the constant ingestion of psycho-actives and meaningless sexual encounters, you’ll never be free. It’s the only road back; the last tether to hope. Cut it at your infinite peril.

Corporate servers and tape back-ups will make sure these never die

Kalani Perry — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 22:37:55 +0000

In chronological order, a sampling:

Subject: Without it
Because, you see, honesty is not enough. And good will isn’t enough. And feeling. And kisses. And intention. And meaning. And, sadly, love is not enough. We get confused sometimes because all those things are present when the unnamed catalyst exists. But without it—IT! —these beautiful moments are just that: furtive grasps at the divine, more bricks in the wall. All squares are rectangles. But not all rectangles are squares.

—

Subject: Easter Eggs
I spend the night eating chocolate Easter eggs. Crunching through the candy shell and letting the sweetness slowly dissolve on my tongue. It’s comforting. The sweetness. I use it as a proxy for my longing. The gentle ache you represent. Understanding always that the presumption of any future is a slippery slope. And dangerous to delicacy. The chocolate dissolves before the shell and as I lay on my back with my eyes closed I smile at the metaphor.

—

Subject: Absolute appreciation
Did I have to go there? I did. But there’s a good reason. You and I connect on such an intellectual level. I absolutely eat your brains. And I think you’re so fucking funny and interesting that I could listen to you speak for days. The mythical, perfect filibuster. That I don’t ever want to get too far off the road map to your being a woman. And a sensual being. And of the body. Corpus. Animus. Spiritus. So while this particular comment manifested in the profane, and perhaps ridiculous. It was rooted, and I do choose that word deliberately and carefully, in the fertile soil of absolute appreciation.

—

Subject: Eloped
I watched, while you were sleeping, and realized how completely contented and genuinely elated I remain — remain… do you know what it feels like to experience a continuous stream of elation… that’s also continuously on the rise?— thanks to your every loving action and unwaveringly adoring behavior? I really cannot describe the enormous amounts of joy and love and happiness and song and warmth, that I feel for you and that you give back to me many times over in reciprocity..

My love, you are my life and my everything. Thank you for your love. I would surely die without it.

Yours now and forever…

—

Subject:
My love — and you are just that — I am yours in every way that I define existence as a sentient being. I honestly believe that you and I are supposed to be together, to challenge and strengthen each other, to be each other’s catalyst for greatness, self actualization, and love. You are my life. I have absolutely no doubts about that absolute truth.

—

Subject: Emotionally detached analysis
Love, or more precisely the feeling that one is in possession of this emotion, is the decisive factor in determining the failure of an erotic relationship. And by this, I do not mean that failure is the result of some absence or inadequacy, but rather it is the mere presence of love that prescribes failure. So many of our resources are used in the pursuit of love, and the success or failure of this pursuit is so intertwined with how we define ourselves, that the day-to-day dynamic of most relationships present an emotionally unacceptable risk.

—

Subject: re: I see
I hate myself for writing this email but you have to know. My capacity for love is… there is no word but I love you more than that word

—

Subject: re: re: I See
Your capacity for love is tangible and sweet. That you would hate yourself for writing an email it saddens me.

—

Subject: Eulogy
Here, then, lay our reflections
Silent hymns to our complicity
The capricious change of heart and
The biases of memory
The rapture of despair and
The inevitable agony
Of off-white lies and furtive cries
And doe-eyed volatility
The promise of redemption
And shame at our complacency
Duplicitous omissions
That mock our claims of honesty
I burn for a reprise
Of our consumptive, common fallacy
The brief joy of our repose
From the familiar nihility
That nonpareil moment
Of our rage against eternity

—

Subject: Someone recently asked me if I liked poetry
Asking someone if they like poetry is an intimate question. It’s not the casual language of small talk. I assumed you were trying to communicate with me about something other than e.e. cummings. Remember when you believed in my nuanced understanding of the human condition? The choice of the word “someone” and the intimacy of the question indicates, whether or not it’s a lover, or even a man, it’s something like what we used to share.

The irony, of course, is that it was never about jealousy or control. It was about respect and true intimacy, that at the end, and sometimes in the middle, vanished. All the little omissions and inconsistencies were so confusing to me. You shut me out and let others in.

I look back and it plays in slow motion and though I lived through it, I still sometimes cannot believe it actually happened. That this is not just some phantasmagoria that hasn’t ended. You chose the worst-case scenario as your first option, setting events in motion that once invoked could not be recalled. At the most crucial moments, you made decisions that I would not have thought possible just a few weeks earlier, leaving everything unnecessarily in ruins.

—

Subject: Hands to the sky crying, “Why, oh why?”
Last April I sent that message to you, then apologized. I shouldn’t have. It perfectly captures the unspoken question repeating in your head since at least 2002. (It’s 2010, so I shouldn’t have to remind you that online journals never go away.) Why do those that have been given so much always have to question the gifts? Or use them to seek the lowest common denominator? And do their best to piss it all away?

—

Subject: I believe in you
I’m going to keep that diamond in my mind. I know you. Our time was double time. Inseparable. Alone together. Now I’m the devil’s child? It doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Look close. Closer. Closer still. Deeper. For thirty seconds, don’t think. Feel. Remember what it’s like to be new. Brand new. And still. For all this, love is never spent. The search for meaning is often encapsulated in the idea that the individual must recognize something larger than itself. Itself. Yourself. Myself. Self. Bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger. Biggest. Separate. My love for you, despite. Is. Was. Will be. Always.

—

Subject: The blanket
Believe it or not everything is venom and everything is love. In an artificial vacuum this is what passes for reflection: pining and trying to understand the purpose or meaning—if any—of an unprecedented sense of loss.

Every minute, every hour, is another chance to change. Life is beautiful and terrible and strange.

Kalani Perry — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 22:24:15 +0000

I’m sorry I put you in a corner. I know you fight back hard. You’re fighting back too hard. In my mind, in my heart, all I ever did was love you. I made mistakes, of course. It’s a cliché to say, “Who doesn’t make mistakes?” But, who doesn’t make mistakes? Do you want me to say, “You win?” Then, “You win.” These unnecessary actions are bankrupting me, financially, emotionally, my faith. You were the one that made me believe again, and your attempts to break me are working against the core of my belief system. I’m turning around so fast, I’m dizzy and I’m nauseated.

I don’t hate you. I’m not trying to bring you harm. I’m scared to see what your life has become, so in all honesty, I’ve been avoiding you. I haven’t been within 10 miles of you (as far as I know) in almost six months because I don’t want to know. I feel like I fell in love with a character from a novel or a play, and that she never really existed. Or, if she did, her appearances were intermittent, like a matinee on a Tuesday afternoon.

The stubborn realization is so painful. I didn’t exist. You didn’t exist. We didn’t exist. There was never, really, a we. I wanted to believe so badly. I wanted to love something will all my heart so badly. I wanted to transcend so badly.

Were you my sweet love? Was I your angel? If not, why did we say it so often? Were you ever there? Were you ever really there? How could you do what you’re doing if you were ever really there? How can I do what I’m doing if I ever really existed?

Remember how I asked you to be vulnerable? Please, be again. If you won’t have me, let me be. Make it easier to walk away without destroying everything. Be vulnerable. I never took advantage of your softness. Stop being so hard.

Take Me Home
Pick up the phone I know you’re there, it’s almost closing time
And we can toss down one more shot before last call
Are you ok? I swear to God, I gotta get out of this house
I miss the days when I’d just not come home at all

So, don’t you cry, it’ll give you lines around your eyes
You gotta try not to live so much of life alone
And if I see you getting crazy by the bottom of the bottle
Take me home, take me home, I’ll take you home

Remember when we used to stumble down the boulevard
From bar to bar until we couldn’t stagger straight?
It seemed like we would live forever, life was not this hard
No, we felt nothing much at all but it felt great

So, don’t you cry, it’ll give you lines around your eyes
You gotta try not to live so much of life alone
And if I see you getting crazy by the bottom of the bottle
I’ll take you home, I’ll take you home, I’ll take you home

Things get better everyday you stay alive
Then I’m amazed every day that the sun decides to rise
Every minute, every hour, is another chance to change
Life is beautiful and terrible and strange

So, don’t you cry, it’ll give you lines around your eyes
You gotta try not to live so much of life alone
And if I see you getting crazy by the bottom of the bottle
I’ll take you home, I’ll take you home, I’ll take you home

Del Valle

Kalani Perry — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 08:08:48 +0000

No one can quite grasp the specifics of my situation. This scares me. Each person I share my story with serves as proxy for a potential juror, eventually to be culled from my bank of peers, whoever they are. And as their eyes inevitably glaze over when I try to explain the nuances–critical to my defense!–of ghost email accounts and temporary I.P. addresses, the task of telling a cohesive narrative–a persuasive cohesive narrative–seems to be currently beyond my grasp.

I give up for the day. Today. Sunday. My third Sunday here. It’s late afternoon, maybe early evening here in Del Valle, Texas. We’re just beyond the east border of Austin proper, near the airport. Austin-Bergstrom International. Trips to and from court pass the airport each way and the freedom that place represents is a painful reminder of my current situation. Incarcerated.

Sundays are normally difficult for me anyway. They have been as long as I can remember. And in my memory Sundays always play out at dusk–not quite darkness–and its reflections always tainted with a vague, unnamed melancholy. In here, of course, that sensation is realized exponentially and manifests now in a heavy-hearted silence. I can hear myself breathing.

The Ethical Slut

Kalani Perry — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 07:37:26 +0000

I called Linda at work and got her voicemail. I tried her cell phone, but didn’t leave a message when she didn’t answer. We had had an argument the night before. Her phone bill, for the second straight month, was over $250, a result of hundreds of text messages between her and a woman named Jenny Minh. Jenny was Linda’s drug dealer. Jenny was also a pimp. Linda and her ex-boyfriend John had burned through $25,000 (Linda’s conservative estimate) on crack, meth, X, weed, and the occasional escort for their drug–addled sexual escapades. Linda explained that John was relatively inexperienced sexually and he was eager to be where she was. A place which eventually included multiple partners for Linda, male and female, while John watched. The truth is most people would be inexperienced in comparison. A short time after we were married Linda confided that she had had at least 150 male lovers and 20 female since the age of 13. She referred to herself as the Ethical Slut.

She used sex to further whatever agenda was current. She claimed to regret only one of the thousands of sexual adventures in her history: in her late teens she ordered X from a dealer when she knew she didn’t have any money. When he arrived to deliver, it was early. The party hadn’t quite started. She pushed him into a vacant room and onto the bed. She unzipped his pants and pulled out his erection, lift her skirt and put him inside of her. All of this without a word, as they both silently comprehended that this would be his payment. She grinded on him until by his moans she could tell that he had come, then got up and walked out of the room and back to the party. It was the only time, she claimed, to betray the moral code of the Ethical Slut. She felt like a whore, and to cleanse herself of that dirty transaction took two hits of X and gave two to a friend, then proceeded to fuck two boys at the party.

I must confess that as we first became lovers, I found these stories incredibly arousing. In fact, one of our favorite games was to re-enact her sordid trysts. She would describe them in great detail and I would imagine myself the drug dealer, T.A., boss, boyfriend, or random stranger. I told her I was not a typical man in the sense that I didn’t quite feel sexual jealousy, especially about her history. And I meant it. One could argue that by marrying a woman with her past I really had no choice. I could either be okay with it or suffer. I made the argument to myself that it would be hypocritical of me to begrudge her her sexual life. I hadn’t had as many lovers, but I certainly was not living by some code–however dubious–like the Ethical Slut did. My sexual history was full of shameful couplings involving coercion, betrayal, and lies. She had only one regret, that one time admitting to literally being a whore. But as I would learn over the next few months, Linda used the truth like she used sex: to further an agenda. And when the truth was inconvenient, or threatening, she lied.

I love you and I miss you

Kalani Perry — Tue, 18 May 2010 05:15:33 +0000

Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second. I miss you like my next breath if it wasn’t taken.

One day I’m happy and healthy, the next I ain’t doing so well

Kalani Perry — Mon, 17 May 2010 12:29:13 +0000

The Righteous Path

I got a brand new car that drinks a bunch of gas
I got a house in a neighborhood that’s fading fast
I got a dog and a cat that don’t fight too much
I got a few hundred channels to keep me in touch
I got a beautiful wife and three tow-headed kids
I got a couple of big secrets I’d kill to keep hid
I don’t know God but I fear his wrath
I’m trying to keep focused on the righteous path

I got a couple of opinions that I hold dear
A whole lot of debt and a whole lot of fear
I got an itch that needs scratching but it feels alright
I got the need to blow it out on Saturday night
I got a grill in the backyard and a case of beers
I got a boat that ain’t seen the water in years
More bills than money, I can do the math
I’m trying to keep focused on the righteous path

I’m trying to keep focused as I drive down the road
On the ditches and the curves and the heavy load
Ain’t bitching bout things that aren’t in my grasp
Just trying to hold steady on the righteous path

There’s this friend of mine I’ve known all my life
Who can’t get it right no matter how hard he tries
He’s got kids he don’t see and several ex-wives
And a list of bad decisions about eight miles wide
Trouble with the law and the IRS
And where he’ll get the money’s anybody’s guess
He’s a long way off but if you was to ask
He’d say he’s trying to stay focused on the righteous path
Trying to keep focused as we drive down the road
Like we did back in High School before the world turned cold
Now the brakes are thin and the curves are fast
We’re trying to hold steady on the righteous path

We’re hanging out and we’re hanging on
We’re trying the best we can to keep on keeping on
We got messed up minds for these messed up times
And it’s a thin, thin line separating his from mine

Trying to hold steady on the righteous path
80 miles and hour with a worn out map
No time for self-pity or self-righteous crap
Trying to stay focused on the righteous path

Goddamn, this band is good

Kalani Perry — Sun, 16 May 2010 16:54:44 +0000

Watch. Listen. Learn.

http://video.pbs.org/video/1481901644

Yeah, I love you so much. I don’t need to exist.

Kalani Perry — Sun, 16 May 2010 16:41:40 +0000

My new favorite band. And yes that is Jack White on the drums.

This album is so good, that I want you to listen to these, but don’t steal them. Buy this album. Now.

The truth?

Kalani Perry — Sun, 16 May 2010 06:55:17 +0000

Everybody is going to hurt you. You just have to find the ones worth suffering for.

Memory is a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past

Kalani Perry — Sun, 16 May 2010 05:42:44 +0000

I thought I was going to be more sad. But it’s actually a relief. I even laughed. Today was full of miracles. A bomb threat at the courthouse giving me the three-day delay I needed? How the fuck does that happen? If I didn’t know it wasn’t me, I might have thought it was me. (It wasn’t, Mom.) And I wish I could be there when it dawns on her, that by not responding “by 10 a.m. on the twentieth day after Monday next,” she defaulted on her chance to respond at all and is now bound by a summary judgment. Specifically, she owes me $3600. I wasn’t even trying to fuck her over; I gave her 150 days to respond. Still, it makes me giggle every time I think about that inevitable moment of initial realization. I would forfeit the money just to be there to see the look on her face.

The Divorce Song
And when I asked for a separate room
It was late at night, and we’d been driving since noon
But if I’d known how that would sound to you
I would have stayed in your bed for the rest of my life
Just to prove I was right
That it’s harder to be friends than lovers
And you shouldn’t try to mix the two
‘Cause if you do it and you’re still unhappy
Then you know that the problem is you
And it’s true that I stole your lighter
And it’s also true that I lost the map
But when you said that I wasn’t worth talking to
I had to take your word on that
But if you’d known how that would sound to me
You would have taken it back
And boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Burned it up and thrown it away
You put in my hands a loaded gun
And then told me not to fire it
When you did the things you said were up to me
And then accused me of trying to fuck it up
But you’ve never been a waste of my time
It’s never been a drag
So take a deep breath and count back from ten
And maybe you’ll be alright
And the license said you had to stick around until I was dead
But if you’re tired of looking at my face, I guess I already am
But you’ve never been a waste of my time
It’s never been a drag
So take a deep breath and count back from ten
And maybe you’ll be alright

Unbelievable

Kalani Perry — Sun, 16 May 2010 03:51:17 +0000

This is not a photograph. It is a vector drawing by Thai artist Ussa Methawiitayakul. Check out the process. One step closer to Weird Science.

Why didn’t I know this?

Kalani Perry — Thu, 13 May 2010 08:45:56 +0000

I found this journal entry online. Sounds like a very sad person. I can relate to so much she says and feels. It sounds so familiar.

“So this is what this journal is for: wallowing in self pity? That’s great because I’ve plenty to go around for everyone. I don’t feel like my life is my own lately. I don’t know what I want to do with my job, I don’t have any close friends I can pour my heart out to, I just spent 7 years and $20,000 for a degree that I’m not even using, I have no idea in what goddamn hemisphere I’m going to be living in 6 months, I don’t even know if I want to still go to Australia anymore, I have continuously failed in romantic relationships, I barely know my parents, I can’t understand my brother, and I never see my sister, I don’t have any money, I’m bored, listless, restless, agitated, depressed, lonely, and too young to be so bitter. And for what? My petty problems are nothing compared to some others I know. I’m unhappy all of the time and I can’t fucking figure out why. So to supplement, I get drunk, I read books, I watch movies, I listen to music, I work hard at my useless job, I do any possible fucking thing that will get my mind off life for a little while. But when it all comes down to it and it’s 2:00 in the morning and I’m sitting here feeling miserable, what then? What now? Does it all go back to being alone? Is that why I work so hard at relationships? Because they’re great distractions from the rest of my little life? I don’t know… I see people all around every day and I watch them go about their lives like nothing at all is wrong. But then I think, “Hey, I probably look just like that to everyone else.” I thought moving away and starting fresh with a clean slate would allow me to collect my thoughts, be myself (whoever the hell that is), but then I get really scared at the whole idea of moving to the other side of the freaking planet — talk about being alone, that’s complete isolation from anything I’ve ever known in my entire life. What the fuck was I thinking? Am I insane? Should I see a psychiatrist? Sure the idea sounds great for someone who has any ounce of balls, but that’s just not me. Not lately anyway. Lately I’ve just felt like quitting. I get joy out of nothing lately, with the exception of music, books, and movies of course. Escapism is great when it’s just that – escape. Not when it’s the only freaking thing in your life that is tolerable. I think I’m going through an identity crisis. I’ve spent so much time being a chameleon and being every different type of person that I have absolutely no idea who I really am. I think I know the kind of person I want to be, but I have no idea how to get there. People tell me that I haven’t changed that much over the years, but they would never know it. They (whoever they are) have always known me to be Funny J , Stoner J , Quiet J, Smart J, Fun J, Boring J, etc, etc… I’m a million different people at any given point in time. It’s impossible to get all my friends in a room and be every different J all at once. I don’t even know where the hell I was going with this rant. I guess I’m just generally unhappy with myself, and therefore everything else associated with my life in some way. Jesus that sounds pathetic. When did I become so joyless? When did I become my mother? God damn. What’s the cure for constant dull malaise? I’ve tried them all it seems, and it just seems to get worse as time goes by. Whatever I’m doing, it’s not working. Maybe moving around the world is just the thing. Or maybe it’ll give me a nervous breakdown and I’ll have to “go away” for a while. Or maybe all of this is just brought on by the fact that I was just rejected yet again by someone I really like. I feel like such a loser. D1 couldn’t love me, and D2 doesn’t even want to try. Never mind love for now — for the past 3+ years that’s been absent from my “love” life. Doesn’t anyone even want to give it a serious try anymore? I’m not talking marriage/kids/house — just honest, complete, joyful companionship. No one wants to make an effort, it seems. Are people really that lazy, selfish, ungrateful, sad, jaded, tired? All I know is that I can’t take much more rejection before I start seriously doubting my worth as a human being. I mean, how much failure does someone have to go through before they start thinking, “No, it’s not you, it’s me” — and actually believe it? This sucks. Goddamn it, it’s 2am, and I’m not any better than I was when I woke up and sure as shit won’t be any better in the morning.”

The Hold Steady, nuff said

Kalani Perry — Fri, 07 May 2010 14:34:59 +0000

If you’ve seen the movie I Heart Huckabees, then you’ll know how I feel about this song, Soft in the Center, to wit:

Well, the hospital is gonna let you go.
But the city is gonna stick around.
Yeah sure, the stars are in the sky.
But the money is still down on the ground.
Man, if money didn’t matter then I might tell you something new.
You can’t tell people what they want to hear
If you also want to tell the truth.

I’m just trying to tell the truth, kid.
I’m just trying to tell the truth.

You can’t get every girl.
You’ll get the ones you love the best.
You won’t get every girl.
You’ll love the ones you get the best.

I know bodies of water freeze over.
I’m from a place with lots of lakes.
But sometimes they get soft in the center.
And the center is a dangerous place.
It’s been a long cold winter.
Now you’re standing on unsafe ice.
You can probably do anything.
If you can just go and get yourself right.

You gotta get yourself right, kid.
I’m gonna give you some advice.

You can’t get every girl.
You’ll get the ones who love the best.
You won’t get every girl.
You’ll love the ones you get the best.
Kid, you can’t kiss every girl.
You gotta trust me on this one.

I know what you’re going through.
I had to go through that too

Shoal Creek

Kalani Perry — Tue, 04 May 2010 23:36:28 +0000

For Carlo Marx
The innocent arrogance of innocent insight
Where no one isn’t stained
The simultaneous paradox, then:
Is no one is to blame
The opiated masses bleat and daily chew their cud
And the pigs that serve them self-righteous
Are covered in the mud
Order has a grotesque cost of vile assimilation
It follows, then, forever lost
The minds of generations
Not all
Some stand naked and hysterical
And shout joyful, angry hymns
From locked and sound-proof
Fifth-floor windows
And kill themselves to live

If you think holding hands is all in the fingers, grab hold of the soul where the memory lingers

Kalani Perry — Tue, 04 May 2010 22:36:34 +0000

If you know me in “real” life, you know that I worship The White Stripes. But never, ever, in a million years did I believe that they would show–not tell–the literal keys to redemption. They wrote this song about me, most likely without knowing it. Delusions of grandeur. (And, yes, I know I’m using that phrase incorrectly, but I’m speaking in the vernacular for all 3 of you that know the difference.)

If you think that a kiss is all in the lips
C’mon, you got it all wrong, man
And if you think that a dance was all in the hips
Oh well, then do the twist
If you think holding hands is all in the fingers
Grab hold of the soul where the memory lingers and
Make sure to never do it with a singer
Cause he’ll tell everyone in the world
What he was thinking about the girl
Yeah, what he’s thinking about the girl, oh

A lot of people get confused and they bruise
Real easy when it comes to love
They start putting on their shoes and walking out
And singing “boy, I think I had enough”
Just because she makes a big rumpus
She don’t mean to be mean or hurt you on purpose, boy
Take a tip and do yourself a little service
Take a mountain turn it into a mole
Just by playing a different role
Yeah, by playing a different role, oh

The boat yeah you know she’s rockin’ it
And the truth well you know there’s no stoppin’ it
The boat yeah you know she’s still rockin’ it
The truth well you know there’s no stoppin’ it

So what, somebody left you in a rut
And wants to be the one who’s in control
But the feeling that you’re under can really make you wonder
How the hell she could be so cold
So now you’re left, denying the truth
And it’s hidden in the wisdom in the back of your tooth
You need to spit it out, in a telephone booth
While you call everyone that you know, and ask ‘em
Where do you think she goes
Oh yeah, where d’ya suppose she goes, oh

The truth well you know there’s no stoppin’ it
And the boat well you know she’s still rockin’ it
The boat well you know she’s still rockin’ it
And the truth yeah you know there’s no stoppin’ it

You recognize the effect and the wreck
That it’s causin’ when she rocks the boat
But it’s the cause hittin on the Cardinal Laws
’bout the proper place to hang her coat
So to you, the truth is still hidden
And the soul plays the role of a lost little kitten but
You should know that the doctors weren’t kidding
She’s been singing it all along

But you were hearin’ a different song
Ya you were hearin’ a different song
But you were hearin’ a different song

The-best-I’m-writing-this-love-letter-so-it-looks-like-I actually-care-about-this-meeting-enough-to-take-notes love letter ever

Kalani Perry — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 20:07:34 +0000

My love (light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul),

This meeting is boring. And my thoughts, as they often do, return to you. What a two weeks, two months, two lives this has been. Who knows why anything happens? I’m so glad you come from a skeptical, rational place, because this supernatural, metaphysical stuff is foreign to me.

Have you noticed how our conversations are so much less about internal things than they used to be? I’m only recently able to step out of myself, ourselves, and concentrate our powers on the external.

Unbelievably, there is still a part of me that is waiting for an unseen shoe to drop, for something to take you away from me. And then every morning I wake up. And you’re there. It doesn’t make sense. But, it happened. It happened.

We’re watching this pseudo-motivational speaker and I’m convinced that the words “unctuous” and “platitude” came into existence so that they one day–today–could be used to describe this man and his unctuous, platitudinal presentation. He literally repeats these Aphorisms For Dummies over and over, and it’s Christian subtext is making me ill. And for a motivational speaker he has a lot of verbal tics (I was counting how many times he said, “You know?” Before I started writing to you 26 in the first 15 minutes alone). I wish you were here. You, more than most, would appreciate how terrible it is.

I’m glad you’re birthday came so shortly after we met. I remember telling you in early April that “if this thing is still happening” at the end of May that I was going to rock your birthday.

I like having you as my focus. When I said I wanted to wake up to you everyday I wasn’t trying to be (overly) romantic. I meant every word. For the past three weeks (minus one Thursday) the first thing that enters my eyehole is you’re beauty. The first thing I smell is your hair. The first thing I hear is your breath. And the first thing I feel is your skin (yes, usually your ass, but that is for another missive of love).

I love love letters. Or, perhaps, I love the idea of them. They represent our best feelings of hopes and fears and futures and happy. And they’re in our handwriting, so it’s like putting it out into the world in a way that cannot later be denied. Not that I would ever deny you. I opened the windows to let your hard rock in a long time ago. And until you say, “Stop,” my default setting is go, go, go! I love you, I love you, I love you! You saved me. Just like you were supposed to. You didn’t let me scare you. You are a warrior. My warrior. My love.

Yours

I’m going to stop pretending

Kalani Perry — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 01:09:48 +0000

Sometimes you come across a song that stops you. Full stop. Stops whatever you’re doing. Holds you down. And makes you listen. Not hear. Listen.

I remember standing in a Tower Records when I was 20, at a listening station. It was a compilation of artists culled from the live performances at KCRW. The first song is a Leonard Cohen poem that morphs with tinkling piano into Silent All These Years by Tori Amos. And the world went away.

This is also one of those songs, maybe even better. Indulge me. Play a game with me. All of us over 16 have been on both sides of this equation. You know the one? 2+2=5.

Here are the lyrics if you want to follow along at home:
I’m gonna tell you what you need to hear
And I’m a little too late
By three or four years
And it may not make much sense
Now that we are apart
But I’m going to stop pretending
That I didn’t break your heart

You see I never thought enough of myself
To realize
That losing me could mean something
Like the tears in your eyes
And I want to tell you I’m sorry
And it’s too late to start
But I’m going to stop pretending
That I didn’t break your heart

And it’s Christmas Eve
Years down the line
Sitting here wishing I’d treated you better
When you were mine
And I have no way of knowing where you are
But I’m going to stop pretending
That I didn’t break your heart

I didn’t mean to hurt you
I didn’t know what I was doing
But I know what I have done

Truth, justice, and blah, blah, blah

Kalani Perry — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 19:41:26 +0000

Surely, one of the most often repeated clichés from the lexicon of the American myth, is that an accused person is innocent until proven guilty, aka, The Presumption of Innocence. Those of you with the displeasure of running through the wrong side of the justice system (I just threw up a little bit in my mouth) know how that phrase is the biggest pile of bullshit since “all men are created equal,” or, “of the people, by the people, and for the people.” Looks good on paper or in an address given over dead soldiers, but doesn’t quite translate into real life.

Consider this. Here in Texas, specifically Travis County, if you are arrested, you are taken in to be processed in downtown Austin. From the moment you arrive, you are treated as if you have been convicted. Depending on who is supervising, the treatment runs the spectrum of stoic to abusive. After processing you are magistrated, which means you go in front of a judge who tells you what you’re being charged with and how much your bail is. If you have the money to make bail? No problem, you’re out in 12 hours. If you don’t? Tough. You remain incarcerated until trial. Let’s say you’ve been accused of a third-degree felony, the punishment for which is 2 to 10 years in jail. The statute of limitations for bringing a defendant to trial for most crimes of this nature is 3 years. Are you picking up what I’m putting down? That means if you can’t make bail (read: poor, minority, mentally ill, etc.) you could theoretically be held for 3 years before going to trial. And the prosecutor can ask the court for an extension to that limitation. Before you say, “That could never happen in America. Prosecutors are working for justice, not to win at any cost,” or, “Why would the police lie about that?” Google it. The conditions in these places are de-humanizing, dangerous, and boring. But even if you are innocent, this is where you are kept until trial.

My personal belief is that it’s an unspoken strategy built into the system. A plea bargain looks better each day a person rots in jail, and many people crack and take what is offered just to get out. There is a whole parallel society that is relegated to outsider status through this system. When you are in jail for long enough, things like future employment, voting rights, home loans, and child custody all become secondary priorities to one thing. Freedom.

So let’s recap. A person is accused and arrested. For whatever reason, is unable to bond out. For whatever reason, trial does not begin for 3 years. Person is exonerated. But has been incarcerated, and lost 3 years of his life. Get it? At the end of this plausible scenario, the defendant has served more time, than he probably would have if he had been convicted. And the recourse? Eat shit, and be thankful the system worked.

The Life Force Crusher-X

Kalani Perry — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 18:13:15 +0000

It’s funny ’cause it’s true.

All girls are valuable

Kalani Perry — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 16:33:53 +0000

Punk

Kalani Perry — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 20:09:05 +0000

I will take punk to my grave. No matter how “normal” I ever get or appear. My heart beats punk every second. Punk is my greatest compliment and strongest pejorative. Punk is a synonym for truth. In its most difficult forms. Hardcore is all the fat trimmed, the tears dried, the essence, the primal, the urge, the love.

We all got holes to fill. And them holes are all that’s real. Some fall on you like a storm, sometimes you dig your own.

Kalani Perry — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 19:44:21 +0000

So the new book starts today, Naming Names: The Consolations of a Worst-Case Scenario. For those of you whose names get named, I will be telling the truth as best I remember it. And truth is defense to libel. Don’t worry, I plan to be hardest on myself. But I will drag your skeletons from the closet into the mud of truth where we can wallow together in the blood and mud and shit and stink with the rest of the pigs. The password comes off tonight. I invite you to see what happens. The genesis of this idea was a series of three letters to lovers past and present, though in the interim present has become past and past present. My posts will not be chronological, but the book will. And through the pain I’ll only tell the truth. See you in Hell.

Remember?

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 20:04:34 +0000

I’m worst at what I do best. And for this gift? I feel blessed.

Who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 19:41:51 +0000

Why would you lie about something dumb like that?
Why would you lie about anything at all?
Through the pain, I always tell the truth.

The rules of engagement

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 19:35:08 +0000

These are the rules I’m playing by; yours seem to be a little more lax. I think you need a lot more #1 and #5, a little more #10, and a whole lot less #9. I need to wake up and repeat #11 as a mantra and stop being surprised at how low you can go. Sometimes, anger is a gift.

Empathize with your enemy.
Rationality will not save you.
There is something beyond yourself.
Maximize efficiency.
Proportionality should be a guideline.
Get the data.
Belief and seeing are both often wrong.
Be prepared to reexamine your reasoning.
In order to do good, you may have to engage in evil.
Never say, “Never.”
You can’t change human nature.

“Lord knows I can’t change,” sounds better in the song than it does with hell to pay

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 19:25:26 +0000

The entries on this site might mistakenly seem full of bile, venom, anger, and sadness. I put it here so I don’t have to carry it with me. I think of you and all I feel is love, love, love. I smile most days, most of the day. And against all odds believe that eventually reality will align with everything we always wanted. So in the moments when you feel alone. Forsaken. Lost. Afraid. You should know I’ve already been there. Subsuming the pain so you don’t have to. Feel me. I’m not angry. And remember, when you feel cold, there is someone, always, that burns for you.

A morality play

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 18:56:38 +0000

This is no great illusion. When I’m with you I’m looking for a ghost. Or invisible reasons to fall out of love, and run screaming from our home. Because we live in a house of mirrors, we see our fears and everything: our songs, faces, and second-hand clothes. But more and more we’re suffering, not nobody, not a thousand beers, will keep us from feeling so all alone.

But you are what you love and not what loves you back. That’s why I’m here on your doorstep pleading for you to take me back.

And the phone is a fine invention; it allows me to talk endlessly to you about nothing disguising my intentions, which I’m afraid, my friend, are wildly untrue. It’s a sleight of hand, a white soul band, the heart attacks I’m convinced I have every morning upon waking. To you I’m a symbol or a monument, your right of passage to fulfillment, but I’m not yours for the taking.

You are what you love and not what loves you back. So, I guess that’s why you keep calling me back.

I’m fraudulent, a thief at best, a coward who paints a bullshit canvas: things that will never happen to me. But at arm’s length it’s Tim who said I’m good at it, I’ve mastered it: avoiding, avoiding everything.

But, you are what you love, Tim, not what loves you back. And I’m in love with illusion, so saw me in half. I’m in love with tricks, so pull another rabbit out of your hat.

Because it needs to be said

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 11:25:33 +0000

I totally stole this from Heather Armstrong, but I feel the exact same way:

Some of you, and you know exactly who you are, you can go right ahead and suck it.

Because it has nothing to do with me. They have this idea of who I am and it is based entirely on assumptions. Bad, completely untrue assumptions that they so DESPERATELY want to believe because my success somehow diminishes their own…

The truth? The truth is that I work my ass off. I hit the ground running at 6am every morning and I do not stop until I hit the pillow at night. And understand that this is not a pity party, I am not complaining…

Also, if I don’t publish, people think I have died. (I appreciate those emails, actually.)

I embrace the knowledge that there are tens if not hundreds of people who despise me. Hundreds of people who have a bad opinion of me and can talk about that opinion. And then go on to say, well, [he] opened [him]self up to this, he better take it!

And oh, I do. I take it. And I want to thank you for it. Because it has forced me to take a look at myself and how I treat other people. Because all the shit and misinformed waah-waah-waahing that is aimed at my head has made it so that I will first, before anything else, give someone the benefit of the doubt, and second, never treat anyone the way I have been treated. Never speak about someone the way people speak about me. Especially in a public forum.

Sure, you can probably find me jealously criticizing someone in my archives, but I like to think that I’ve come a long way since then. Because the hate mail and the hate sites and the bickering twitters about [me], all the crazy assumptions about me and my family that I see being tangled and weaved in ways that are specifically made to make someone feel better about their own insecurities, all of this has made me so much more human.

Thank you, those of you who need to suck it.

The exaggerated importance of alignment

Kalani Perry — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 07:38:20 +0000

I used to reiterate to whomever would listen about how much we were alike. How important it seemed. How different it was not to have to explain this book or that band or that painting. There was almost no ramping up in a discussion on anything from Tool to Schrödinger’s cat and the search for reality. And yet these things end up meaning less than nothing. The decorations on a cake consumed too quickly to be appreciated, a dead tree decorated and weeks later discarded, the oleaginous promises are long forgotten. It meant nothing to anything to no one that matters. And now? There is no instant understanding. In its place a quick laugh, a history of decades, real affection. There is no cognitive dissonance. Everything is at it seems. That is peace actualized.

Ain’t that the truth?

Kalani Perry — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 22:30:35 +0000

Sin (D Remix)

Kalani Perry — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 02:02:57 +0000

With apologies to Trent Reznor who “is Nine Inch Nails.” I found Sin incarcerated in Harris County and a phone number ending in 662. Prescriptions forged on Research, then like Peter, three times denied. Remember the lies? I do. The biases of your “memory,” the improvised duplicity, and the reckless, half-assed perjury. It’s all irrelevant either way. There is a transcript, and there was an oath. What else will I find if I just bother to look?

For your listening pleasure:

Sin
You give me the reason.
You give me control.
I gave you my purity.
My purity you stole.
Did you think I wouldn’t recognize this compromise?
Am I just too stupid to realize?
Stale incense, old sweat, and lies, lies, lies.
It comes down to this.
Your kiss.
Your fist.
And your strain?
It gets under my skin.
Within.
Take in the extent of my sin.
You give me the anger.
You give me the nerve.
Carry out my sentence.
While I get what I deserve.
I’m just an effigy to be disgraced.
To be defaced.
Your need for me has been replaced.
And if I can’t have everything, well then just give me a taste.
It comes down to this.
Your kiss.
Your fist.
And your strain?
It gets under my skin.
Within.
Take in the extent of my sin.

The blanket

Kalani Perry — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 09:40:48 +0000

Believe it or not everything is venom and everything is love. In an artificial vacuum this is what passes for reflection: pining and trying to understand the purpose or meaning—if any—of an unprecedented sense of loss.

The grand tour

Kalani Perry — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 14:07:21 +0000

Of course, I chose Spring Break to get the hell out of Dodge. For the record, it is impossible to fly into Florida, in March, from anywhere, including Florida, for less than a thousand dollars. So for a hundred-fifty bucks I jump on the bus; how bad could it be? If my tone is laying flat, I’ll try to put a finer point on it. A Greyhound bus is like a portable horse track, full of the exact same individuals, the same sadness and desperation, the base conversation, the “if only’s.” And before you think I’m casting aspersions, I do have some remaining insight. Enough to realize I am sitting among the surrendered, the pathetically struggling. The dying. Looking forward to a finish that might never happen.

Most of you reading this will need to take a look at a map of Florida—closely—to understand the absurdity of this next segment. Clearwater is a beautiful beach, but a low-rent resort. It wants to be Cape May so badly it can taste it. But as I learned on that 36-hour bus ride, want is not need, and it most certainly is not is. Still, I should have made an escape there. Check your maps. (Click to make it disappear.) My ultimate destination was Tampa. Notice the proximity between Clearwater and Tampa. In fact, the bus goes further south, rounds that small peninsula (aka “The South Bay”), then heads…wait for it…north to Panama City. At this point, ignorant to Greyhound routing systems, Florida geography (beyond Tallahassee, Jacksonville, Orlando, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale and Tampa), I naively ask if this stop, Panama City, is closer to Tampa and should I get off here. “No, you change buses in Tallahassee.” Again, my Florida geographic knowledge, which peaked in fifth and sixth grade when we all had to pick states to give reports about (I had Ohio, in fifth grade, with it’s Nepalese-ripoff flag and New Hampshire in sixth, with, in my opinion, the ultimate state motto that can never be approached, let alone bettered: Live Free or Die.) But, as usual, I digress. I did remember that Tallahassee was all the way at the top, and that Tampa was some what in the middle, which in Greyhound terms means hours. Fuck. I could literally see Tampa two hours ago, and now there were at least five (!) to go.

Oh, yeah. I’m leaving out an important part. I’ve been living with the specter of a lie hanging over me for the last six months. A lie repeated several times under oath. A lie that is so easily refuted, I can’t understand why this nonsense continues, and no one lets me exonerate myself. 180 days now of living needlessly under pressure. Oh, yeah, and it’s killing me. So the mind is strong, but the body fights back. And when I realize we are not, in fact, near Tampa, but Marianna, Florida, and that there is still a required bus change in Tallahassee, my body turns around, looks at me, and says “Fuck you. No more. No. More.”

If you have never suffered an involuntary grand mal seizure, I highly suggest you avoid it. Imagine an unstoppable wave of terror so strong you think you’re going to die with every breath. Also, you can’t breathe. And your brain tricks you into thinking that everyone trying to help is actually trying to kill you. And you can’t move, but you’re actually clenched so tight you pull every major muscle in your body. And you bite down so hard, you almost bite off your tongue. And you don’t feel a thing. I woke up in the hospital. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t move. So I lay there for two days, eyes wide shut. And then I could move again. And so they released me.

I walked out. Normal. Myself. Back into the wild. Eli, Eli lama sabachthani?

I believe in you

Kalani Perry — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 14:06:44 +0000

I’m going to keep that diamond in my mind. I know you. Our time was double time. Inseparable. Alone together. Now I’m the devil’s child? It doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Look close. Closer. Closer still. Deeper. For thirty seconds, don’t think. Feel. Remember what it’s like to be new. Brand new. And still. For all this, love is never spent. The search for meaning is often encapsulated in the idea that the individual must recognize something larger than itself. Itself. Yourself. Myself. Self. Bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger. Biggest. Separate. My love for you, despite, is. Was. Is. Will be. Always.

Shakespeare and how what feels immediate is older than man

Kalani Perry — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 14:05:49 +0000

These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumphs die, like fire and powder which as they kiss consume.

So we begin Act 3. About the same place we began Act 2. A lot has happened, and though I’m closer than most of you, I don’t see how this resolves. I’m tired of my eyes watering. I’m tired of the unprovoked “advocacy.” The situation hasn’t–so far–required any platitudes to solve any dilemmas. If there’s a laugh track, they’ve switched it from cheerful group to smirks of realization and spiteful grins turned inward.

Still, if I had it to do over again, I might. That glimpse of the infinite. Even a momentary possession of it is worth one hundred years of solitude. (Which, of course, is easy to say after only 125 days.) Especially by those of us lucky enough to touch. Just the tip. Just a little. It’s selfish in the same way that sadness is, it just feels better.

That might sound strange looking in from the outside. It seemed strange up close. And impulsive. You could make that argument. (It’s a long line, by the way, but you’ll probably still have a chance to pour it on if you’re so inclined.) I’ll tell you what I tell everybody else. The decisions were not made from a place of fragility, but of rapture. It’s the only time I’ve ever felt still. I slept. That’s way bigger than it sounds.

So here’s to the end of rage. For now. And time to return to the roots of absolute appreciation. Redemption. Peace. Sleep.

An imagined prologue to divorce. Oh, and Beck.

Kalani Perry — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 14:04:43 +0000

How is it possible that today, a niche-famous musician I’ve never met, only having admired him from this side of my ears, could accurately predict the thoughts in my head, from the speakers of my car, and in harmony no less? Even more impressive is the prediction manifest in a song, Cold Brains, released in 1999, which means it was probably written even earlier, and thus predicted this very day over one decade in advance.

And don’t let the song titles from this era fool you. These are difficult moments for sure, but they’re not about surrender. He’s not singing about his condition, he’s accepting of the role he played, but he’s singing about her. Killing her softly with his song. Awesome. Granted, witty revenge doesn’t feel as good when you’re saying it to yourself just before passing out in the closet, or the object of your wit doesn’t care. But the Universe knows you went down raging against the machine.

Your only leverage at that point is insider trading. You almost always end up regretting it. But, shit, does that feel good in the moment. It’s hard to resist the intoxicating, immediate rise back to prominence as you recognize that, at least on some level, what you say still matters. If you’ve been with someone long enough, you know where to go, even in the dark. In fact, at the end of a relationship, you’ve been purposefully not going there, just in case, rehearsing what you might say in your mind. You have to choose carefully, too little and you’re pathetic, too much and there just may not be a road back. Stink look, an interjection, no permanent damage, but at least you know she’s salty.

I’m sure Beck’s wife had a little Morton in her (yes, that is a euphemism) when Sea Change came out. (Technically, Cold Brains is on Mutations, which came out a few years earlier, but since they were married at the time, I think it’s fair to label her the muse for these odes to misery.) And I can just hear her trying to argue with… songs…to her friends and family. He just seemed like a gentle, musical genius, with an aw-shucks charm to match his boyish, good looks. Only later did he suddenly, and without warning, become the fill-in-the-lie. I’ve seen this phenomenon and it’s quite remarkable. You tell a lie enough times, especially one that contains elements of the truth (e.g., time and place, main characters), and it becomes reality for some people. There’s a scene in Ghostbusters where Harold Ramis is examining Sigourney Weaver when they first meet her. “She’s telling the truth. At least she thinks she is.” You never really know do you?

Anyway, as the album becomes a bitter classic, Mrs. Beck, is now surrounded by his poetic interpretations of the past—her past— which given his unflinching self-deprecation and painful confession, ring true to me. I imagine her seeking validation in a hand-picked audience, sycophancy being the only requirement for entry. A new lover would have served a similar purpose. Co-worker, hometown acquaintance, bartender at a favorite dive, really, “Who?” is usually not the burning question, at this stage. And proximity counts as a positive personality trait.

I loved it when life handed me that role the first time. I thought it was like an extra birthday that year. Turns out, its really not even a gift. You are basically the consoler of the lonely. You are tolerated. You cast stones at ghosts, sublimate claims of bias, and subsume ex-parte recollections, with indignation or sympathy being your only tolerated utterances. (FYI, use the latter sparingly. Too much and it can backfire when your affect is interpreted as pity. She’s there for validation, not actualization.) In exchange you get to be the first one to shake her out of her dress. It’s not that hard, really, you just have to not be him. It doesn’t even take that long. The bullpen’s been notified long before the starting pitcher gets the hook. Let’s take that silly metaphor another step. You are middle relief. It takes you a miraculous comeback to get a win, and you’re not even supposed to get the save. Your ERA is 9.67 because when you’re in trouble she makes you stay out there so she can save the “good” pitchers for a better situation. You do this with full disclosure at certain points in your career (hint: they’re not the high points), because you’re happy to still be in the game.

Thankfully, Beck had the resources and the audience to compile a more compelling rebuttal than most could construct. I’m sure it’s nice to have a platinum-selling album as your advocate. Especially one that perfectly captures in sweet acoustic guitar, and lyrics whispered to you like a lullaby in your sleep, by god herself, about what a pain in the ass your ex-wife can be. Must have made him feel a little better. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I present to you Exhibit A, Cold Brains. (Lyrics)

Wait, I spoke too soon. He did write a follow up for me. In my defense I didn’t listen to Sea Change very often. To get through it in one sitting requires that you have never been hurt by love. Nope. Too specific. You are actually dead inside. He wrote the songs during his divorce. Exhibit B, Lost Cause. (Lyrics)

Every song is like this. It is brutal to listen to. So beautifully sad. I cannot imagine what he was going through when he made it. Shut up. Already Dead. (Lyrics)

Sad bastard music

Kalani Perry — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 09:48:31 +0000

Rational thought as a means to change is not often celebrated in love songs or happily ever-after-movies, but is the part of our consciousness best able to understand an end goal, modify ineffective strategies, repeat successful ones, and keep us on the enlightened path to self-actualization.

There are brain chemistry issues for some, but even they must choose whether to seek help. Then they must make the effort to maximize its efficacy. These both are rational choices. Conversely, for a person being ruled by feelings it is difficult to recognize that change is even possible. Yet, no situation can get better without that transformation. What ever better comes to mean.

Swallowing wine while listening to sad bastard music is inarguably a poor strategy for feeling better or communicating with the world, a fact immediately recognized by someone whose choices are being controlled with conscious thought. In moments of conceit, i.e., most often, I consider myself the smartest person in the room. And yet, judging by my choices, I sometimes rank highly among the most stupid people this species has ever produced.

Feelings follow thoughts. And thoughts can be controlled. That’s where the difference lies.

Hands to the sky crying, “Why, oh, why?”

Kalani Perry — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 00:47:48 +0000

Last April I sent that message to a friend, then apologized. I shouldn’t have. That perfectly captures the unspoken question being repeating in her head since at least 2002. (It’s 2010, so I shouldn’t have to remind anyone that online journals never go away. Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.) Why do those that have been given so much always have to question the gifts? Or use them to seek the lowest common denominator and do their best to piss it all away?

Coincidences

Kalani Perry — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 04:12:33 +0000

Life is mostly wasting time, trying to avoid pain, and gorging on whatever we think will give us two seconds of pleasure. Whenever I’ve been foolish enough to trick myself otherwise, the pain has been tenfold because I wasn’t bracing for what I should have known was an inevitable blow.

You were evil, but I was worse: I was stupid. And I’m not stupid. I was careless and ignored a timeline that begins with human history before our consciousness and finishes with you. No one comes from either undamaged.

I closed my eyes, and missed the moment that yours changed, from stare to simmer. And God damn me for not admitting there was a difference, immediately after I did. There were too many things being slipped under pillows, erased with cause, or whispered when I was sleeping. And as we all know, there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

Willful suspension and phantom pains

Kalani Perry — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 08:32:44 +0000

The short distance I’ve covered since October, belies the activity. I was too long clinging to assumptions that are more accurately described as delusions. In retrospect, it’s easier to see the logic, that when not convoluted by false hope, was pretty accurate in its forecast. I hate that I was right. There was an agent, actually two, a catalyst, and a verified, repeatable result. This is a cold comfort. As with a more accurate morbidity calculation, I would’ve preferred being wrong. And every new prediction manifesting as predicted, casts more doubt on the past. In fact, I’ve stopped asking questions, because more often than not, I’d prefer not to think about the almost certain answers, or my pusilanimous complicity in the willful suspension of disbelief.

Now I’m left to the forensic work. Self-flagellating with scenarios of how, when, and where, but most of all wondering who? I don’t care who it was with, but if it was premeditated, then who benefit? Isn’t that a strange logic to find comfort in? A simple cost/benefit analysis provides the only plausible scenario, that I can see, especially given history, that doesn’t require a plot. Patterns emerge, and this suggests an archetype. Right?

It’s also true, however, that an agenda was certainly adjusted at some point without my input, and the attempts to obfuscate that adjustment were inarguably the product of intelligent design. Cruel, but intelligent. The irony is that the symptoms of this campaign and its execution (the unexplained lost hours and hidden accounts, the immediate deletion of 2 a.m. text messages), though uncomfortable, were tolerable and, in fact, only possible with my acquiescence.

This is a first for me. An epilogue without mercy, constantly speaking truth to historical lies. And like the phantom pains of an amputee, the hurt was realized long after the actual betrayal.

Supernatural indulgences

Kalani Perry — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 02:55:31 +0000

Why was I so convinced that this was different. It felt different. Because she called me, “Angel?” Ridiculous. Yet, because we met at a time when I was fragile, I likened her existence to the proactive, blessed supernatural. I wanted so badly for the fairy tale we started in those beautiful emails to be real. I was too busy writing the screenplay to a miracle to be interested in the dissonance of reality, and paid a hefty usury for the indulgence.

I thought of that recently

Kalani Perry — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 03:11:14 +0000

“Someone recently asked me if I liked poetry…”

Asking someone if they like poetry is an intimate question. It’s not the casual language of small talk. I assumed you were trying to communicate with me about something other than e.e. cummings. Remember when you believed in my nuanced understanding of the human condition? The choice of the word “someone” and the intimacy of the question indicates, whether or not it’s a lover, or even a man, it’s something like what we used to share.