I'ds of March

I'd rather not be writing this at all. I'd rather the words spontaneously slip from my lips in a sunny room into a single forgiving ear punctuated by the crunch of crisp linen. Naked, warm and free from fear. I'd rather let them slip away and spin with the swirling sunbeam particles and watch them effervesce and disappear forever. I'd breath and smile and watch them go, knowing that finally peace had arrived in the kingdom of my mind.

No, I'd rather not be writing this at all, certainly not all alone in the darkness of my eggplant chamber at 4 am. I'd rather not know that the room full of strange ears that would ultimately receive these words were a gum ball machine filled with suspicion, judgement, sympathy and excuses. I'd rather my words were more than a bag of quarters, and I'd rather each twist of the crank brought more than a colored sphere of some unknown, distant reaction - some cheap fleeting phantasmic confectionary that loses its flavor in a heartbeat.

I'd rather these words were worth more, but they're not. They are but the cheap I'ds of a mind at war with skeletons and angels, fools and heros, ghosts and flesh. And I, the battlefront on which these multitudes collide, well I'd rather be planting flowers in these trenches. I'd rather see honeysuckle growing on the barbed wire. I'd rather see the clouds lift and the sun break down on green serenity, where the motives are obvious, the subtext apparent, and the heart open fearlessly wide. 

I'd hoped that by saying the words out loud their power to wage war would be greatly diminished. I'd hoped that I could make them hilarious, and small… words you would want to take home and feed and pet and watch their stumbling silliness. But no one will want these words, these words will pass through a sunday night crowd and I will take the solo flight back to my eggplant chamber, still stuck with them fighting it out in the grey sack in my head.

I'd rather not share these words with you, but here we are, at war, and Im bringing you all into battle.

I'd wished I'd had something to say when thrust into the deathbed room of my yellow skeletal father, all alone, all of nine, but all I had was mute terror. Id rather have been a better father myself now that the roles are reversed and the fruits of my loin are ready to fly away somewhere else out out and ion their own life. I'd rather have stayed an athlete instead being seduced by the chemicals and games that lit my mind up like a bonfire, but let my body waste away. I'd rather be invisible, yet I'd rather not be ignored. I'd rather you just came with me to my apartment instead of staying in that house that was about to burst into flames taking all your skin and talent and your life with it. I'd rather the naked women I've created out of pigment would leap alive from their canvas prison, touch my hair, tell me thank you and then whisp away into abstract fields. I'd rather not see patterns everywhere, especially where there are none. I'd rather not automatically think you hate me. I'd rather sleep longer than two hours at a time, with the seizure dreams and the falling dreams and the dreams of isolation and immobility. I'd rather not wear your judgement like a heavy blanket that keeps the light that shines from within me dark. I'd rather trust more, and sometimes I'd wished I'd trusted less. I'd probably have not taken that sixth hit of acid if I knew it would have taught me not the beauty, but the true horror of the ego. I'd rather have passed the acid test.  I'd rather not have given you that first hit of weed if I knew that you would be the one person that would spin that into a 100 dollar a day heroin habit that would destroy your life. I'd rather be a witch doctor again. I'd rather you see me for who I am so you could tell me who that is. I'd rather reinvent my life. I'd rather not feel its too late. I'd rather be a fearless egomaniac like the rest of you, rather than running from my own self. I'd rather have the courage to leave you alone. I'd rather make you laugh. Id rather make you squirm. I'd rather I'd been more careful with my heart, or barring that, I wish I could throw it open to the whole world. I'd rather believe in some sort of god. I'd rather there were some sort of meaning. I'd rather have at least some of the answers, even just a handful. I'd rather believe there were answers, reasons, an explanation. I'd rather the paramedics and cops hadn't busted down my door yesterday just because do one misplaced phrase, one cry for love that was perceived as a death wish. For the record, I'd rather not be dead, I'd rather be alive. I have shit to do.8

But mostly, I'd rather I meant more to you. Mostly, I'd rather be loved.

But here I am again, wasting my time, trying to make my id's stick. Fuck you, and your teflon spirits. Slippery selfish bastards.

I'd not have read this tonight had it not been the only war I've ever fought, the war with myself. I'd like to think that having such words on the outside could make some sort of difference as they slip through these dusty couches, bounce of the dusty books and penetrate your dusty ears. I'd be inclined, though, to think that this is just one more pile of meaningless letters strung together like beads forming a necklace that no one can wear. These words need crisp linen and sunlight and familiar smells and forgiveness. Only then can they lay down their arms, and sift back into the dark corners to rest. Only then can the life I'd rather be leading grow out of the scarred trenches, its green vines and virulent blooms totally obscuring the ravaged landscape that lay before.

All in all, I'd rather not be at war. To be at war with oneself is a a fools errand, a mobius strip of circular logic. It never ends, it never relents, there can be no winner. If you win you lose. I want crisp linen, I want forgiveness, I want sunlight. I want you to hear me without pity. I want to find that place in you that overlaps the place in me me where there is no war. Where we are one. 

All and all, I'd rather be forgiven my battle, as I know that your battle is just the same. My forgiveness is absolute. Your darkest deepest late nite conflict is the part of you is that which makes you human. It is beautiful to me.We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. And me? I'd rather be looking at the stars. I'd rather look at them with you.