euphues:


Landschaft, 1904, by Hugo Erfurth

0:39// Please, walk with me. I love you. Be well.
8:07// After a bad evening being stood up by yet another Briton, I just woke from the most beautiful dream, in which I looked deep into the eyes of a beautiful, sweet, and kind young man whom I kissed, or woke just before we kissed. I realize that, if I can somehow move beyond my history of abuse, particularly the trauma of my last relationship (with the man I honestly thought I would marry — it was not all his fault by any means, though he did take things to incredible extremes that were no less traumatic for me having been a jerk before he turned into that vicious, scowling, hateful person [after a relationship during which he rarely, if ever, expressed a negative emotion — I hope he learns, as I have, the importance of being assertive, neither submissive (which leads to resentment and hatred) nor aggressive (which is counter-productive and hurtful)]), I can find love and happiness again. I am sorry. I forgive. I love you.
12:47// Oh, and the impish Brit sent a response earlier, “I’m sorry you were hurt. It was my last night here and my friends got me drunk. I will try to make it up to you when next I am in town.” I told him, in a way S. would respect (me thinking of both my own past behavior for which I am truly sorry and the behavior of the woman in the Music Department who opened your mail), “That is neither a true apology nor an excuse.” I am really disappointed by the lack of manners kids, albeit 22-year-old visiting sex studies lecturer kids, have these days. Our love was, at its best, an island of sensibility, warmth, and mutual admiration/respect, in a world of careless twits. I miss that. I miss you. I love you so truly in a way that nothing short of non-existence will erase. Please, may we bury the hatchet soon? Be well brother. I love you, unconditionally.
12:33// The impish Brit’s researcher friend is interviewing people who are mostly-gay and mostly-straight identifying non-exclusive sexualities, which makes me a bit jealous that I did not choose a fluffier, more intriguing, and not as stressful career path [13:38// On second thought, such academic pursuits also bother me, signs of rising decadence.]. But, I am on the path I am on, and I will build spaces of great beauty that will make all the struggle and incredible loss worth it. I will leave places behind when I die. I mention to him how much of my writing centers around issues of alienation and sexual identity in an era of pervasive mediation through these screens. I have mixed feelings concerning this brave new world, but I suppose it’s not all bad (and if my love should be there in the ether, and if his heart should change, what a positive twist of Fate!). The researcher might look too much like S. for me not to automatically fear being hurt by him. Idk. How could I have known that, in fucking my head, you would end up so thoroughly fucking my mind? I love you, all the same. Neither of us are perfect or wholly to blame, but damn are you good at taking things to absurd extremes, sir. That being said, all things considered, we are damn amazing S. Please let there be peace between us brother. I have given us my all.
I had two more dreams, the first of which I do not recall except that it involved my grandmothers’ houses, the scrawling notes I scratched out fairly illegible. The second dream involved me riding down a parkway weaving through a thick mountainous pass draped in fog. Some attractive young blonde guy I had offended approached my kid sister, in her car, on the other side of the parkway, and put a cigarette out on her right hand. I rushed to get help. I rallied my father and then my brother Chance (through an XBox interface I only fumblingly could use, pushing buttons and speaking to the screen as he did last winter holiday).
I was then in some indoor fascist carnival space, “Has anyone seen Sam Lowry!?!” There was part of the complex that was like Sam’s first day at Information Retrieval, huddles of people and flurries of papers shuffling through outrageously tall spaces, all movement and humming chatter, for no true purpose, then silence and the vast empty void of the bureaucracy. Attached to the cold, heartless, callous, grey, still, void of the bureaucratic machine state of which Sam, in the movie “Brazil”, was a part, was the red and blue neon and flashing lights of the carnival games, rides, and stage performances, where I lugged my sky blue bed sheets (imprinted with a pattern of white knotting vines) and other bits around. I was teased by others of the normal/controlled/non-bureaucratic class trying to dull their pain in the pervasive blinding colored lights applied to the nonetheless callous and soul-deadening cold concrete shell. 
Please S., be human, in a good way. I love you and will always believe in the sweet man you are capable of being. - s.p.

euphues:

Landschaft, 1904, by Hugo Erfurth

0:39// Please, walk with me. I love you. Be well.

8:07// After a bad evening being stood up by yet another Briton, I just woke from the most beautiful dream, in which I looked deep into the eyes of a beautiful, sweet, and kind young man whom I kissed, or woke just before we kissed. I realize that, if I can somehow move beyond my history of abuse, particularly the trauma of my last relationship (with the man I honestly thought I would marry — it was not all his fault by any means, though he did take things to incredible extremes that were no less traumatic for me having been a jerk before he turned into that vicious, scowling, hateful person [after a relationship during which he rarely, if ever, expressed a negative emotion — I hope he learns, as I have, the importance of being assertive, neither submissive (which leads to resentment and hatred) nor aggressive (which is counter-productive and hurtful)]), I can find love and happiness again. I am sorry. I forgive. I love you.

12:47// Oh, and the impish Brit sent a response earlier, “I’m sorry you were hurt. It was my last night here and my friends got me drunk. I will try to make it up to you when next I am in town.” I told him, in a way S. would respect (me thinking of both my own past behavior for which I am truly sorry and the behavior of the woman in the Music Department who opened your mail), “That is neither a true apology nor an excuse.” I am really disappointed by the lack of manners kids, albeit 22-year-old visiting sex studies lecturer kids, have these days. Our love was, at its best, an island of sensibility, warmth, and mutual admiration/respect, in a world of careless twits. I miss that. I miss you. I love you so truly in a way that nothing short of non-existence will erase. Please, may we bury the hatchet soon? Be well brother. I love you, unconditionally.

12:33// The impish Brit’s researcher friend is interviewing people who are mostly-gay and mostly-straight identifying non-exclusive sexualities, which makes me a bit jealous that I did not choose a fluffier, more intriguing, and not as stressful career path [13:38// On second thought, such academic pursuits also bother me, signs of rising decadence.]. But, I am on the path I am on, and I will build spaces of great beauty that will make all the struggle and incredible loss worth it. I will leave places behind when I die. I mention to him how much of my writing centers around issues of alienation and sexual identity in an era of pervasive mediation through these screens. I have mixed feelings concerning this brave new world, but I suppose it’s not all bad (and if my love should be there in the ether, and if his heart should change, what a positive twist of Fate!). The researcher might look too much like S. for me not to automatically fear being hurt by him. Idk. How could I have known that, in fucking my head, you would end up so thoroughly fucking my mind? I love you, all the same. Neither of us are perfect or wholly to blame, but damn are you good at taking things to absurd extremes, sir. That being said, all things considered, we are damn amazing S. Please let there be peace between us brother. I have given us my all.

I had two more dreams, the first of which I do not recall except that it involved my grandmothers’ houses, the scrawling notes I scratched out fairly illegible. The second dream involved me riding down a parkway weaving through a thick mountainous pass draped in fog. Some attractive young blonde guy I had offended approached my kid sister, in her car, on the other side of the parkway, and put a cigarette out on her right hand. I rushed to get help. I rallied my father and then my brother Chance (through an XBox interface I only fumblingly could use, pushing buttons and speaking to the screen as he did last winter holiday).

I was then in some indoor fascist carnival space, “Has anyone seen Sam Lowry!?!” There was part of the complex that was like Sam’s first day at Information Retrieval, huddles of people and flurries of papers shuffling through outrageously tall spaces, all movement and humming chatter, for no true purpose, then silence and the vast empty void of the bureaucracy. Attached to the cold, heartless, callous, grey, still, void of the bureaucratic machine state of which Sam, in the movie “Brazil”, was a part, was the red and blue neon and flashing lights of the carnival games, rides, and stage performances, where I lugged my sky blue bed sheets (imprinted with a pattern of white knotting vines) and other bits around. I was teased by others of the normal/controlled/non-bureaucratic class trying to dull their pain in the pervasive blinding colored lights applied to the nonetheless callous and soul-deadening cold concrete shell. 

Please S., be human, in a good way. I love you and will always believe in the sweet man you are capable of being. - s.p.