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Waking Up And the Problems of Pregnant Pornography

Posted on | September 1, 2011 | 3 Comments

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©2011 Peter Diamond

It’s been a long time since we last spoke.  My facial hair is deep and my voice crackles with my third round of puberty.  There are two reasons for this communication. One the infamous Pete Diamond has sent a flock of dolphins in searching of my recluse Toronto hideaway. Somewhere deep in the nuclear wastes of Austria he has been thinking of the Colony. Inspired by  yesterday’s ravings he has sent a boon meant to awaken the Colony from our sleep. So for the first time I will work to do justice to his art rather than sit in amazement at what he makes of my own.The second inspiration for this piece comes from an altogether different place.

Here goes:

Sometimes God sends you a sign and you can’t ignore it.

It’s arguable that God would never have sent me this sign.

That this sign violates a good many of God’s commandments and that by reading this post you may at some point be  sodomized by a red horned demon named Russell Trinitorius at an afterlife S and M afterhours club called Hell.

But I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes. No one is going to drag you up….

Moses saw a burning bush. Jonah had some dealings with a whale and Noah took up boating.

I saw a big-breasted woman seducing an amateur actor playing her husband’s stepson on the Internet and remembered a thousand things I had forgotten about love. To describe the scenario properly I feel I should explain that she was also quite pregnant and while they fucked she was smoking a cigarette and her moaning was interspersed with several short fits of coughing.  She took frequent breaks to light a fresh smoke when the old one had burned down to ash and gone out.  So adultery, not quite incest, pregnancy and the dangers of smoking while pregnant were rolled into one package. This quadruple layered cake of depravity lasted for nearly thirty minutes and has been viewed by hundreds of thousands of people.

In my mind  porn is a narcotic that lets your dreams go to sleep. In porn there should be no connection to the reality you are craving. There is no sweaty sweet talk after where you laugh because you fucked your brains gone. There is rarely quality kissing. There is no link to the love and respect that superpower sex into soul shaking insanity. In good porn we can pretend for just a moment that only our bodies hunger. Where the perfect silicone bodies are there to distract us from the beautifully flawed women we love more than we can say. Like ballet we are chasing an aesthetic far distant from our own lives, a fantasy that never lets us look back.

The amazing ballet pirouettes are replaced by all dressed sex that fits into some formula that turns art into an exercise. The anorexic pre teen body is replaced by fullsome buxom bought breasts. In ballet everything can be resolved in the thrillingly explicit language of body. Porn is the same excepting that the training is slightly less rigorous and the language is less complicated.  Choreography involves two minutes of scenario, women going down on men for eight minutes and then sighing in ecstasy at the two minutes of cunningulus they receive in return, then proceed to have sex in at least four different camera friendly positions and scream for someone to cum on their face. So why was this cigarette smoking step son-seducing MILF my burning bush? What is different about her than the secretaries, babysitters, desperate housewives and schoolgirls that inhabit the Firefox fantasies of males of my generation and many others?

The answer is simple. I was stunned by how far hundreds of thousands of people felt they had to go to experience sex with the love removed.

I couldn’t believe how far they had dragged us into an appreciation of all that was wrong to escape the memory of those few moments when everything was right. Porn isn’t about replacing; it’s about totally and completely escaping. In this light, this porn was the best I had ever seen. All remnants of holding hands, cuddling and trading secrets in the dark had been wiped away.

I startled myself by realizing how deeply I’d fallen asleep and how long I had lost consciousness for. I’d spent months watching hundreds of hours of TV shows for the same effect. To replace the drama of my own existence with the drama scripted by writers making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. To dull the melancholy and fill the space with as much story as I possibly could.

I fell asleep. I forgot her. I forgot the panic. And I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night.

For anyone who has ever been an insomniac the clock becomes a means of weighing your existence. When you open your eyes every hour you know that you are losing the war with your own mind. That your admitting defeat because the anxiety that has taken over your own night has decided you can’t face your days without the peace you get from being brain-dead zombie sleepless. I remember the feeling of being blessed when I would look at the clock only once, as my eyes opened in the morning. I remember how she got me to stop covering up the clock. How she took away my sound machine. How I learned to be leave silence unfilled. I remember thinking that no matter what I’d be grateful for each and every day.

That isn’t the case.

You’ve probably been here before.

That place where you have no idea what your story is supposed to be. You’ve finished university and didn’t find a job. You are spending your time waiting for something and you have no idea what that is supposed to be.

Lately my problem hasn’t been getting to sleep but getting awake. Not that I can’t leave the bed. It’s more that I don’t feel things the way I know I’m capable of feeling them.

When I wasn’t able to get to sleep I was fighting for my sanity. I exercised until I was the skinniest Jew with wiry arms corded with muscle, I ate until my body was purified of the years of MacDonald’s abuse, quit dope, meditated and therapied myself until life and love made me okay.

There were walls I had to break down and build up.  I did the work.

Never waking up is different.

There is no crisis besides the ordinary day-to-day life questions and the knowledge that whatever doesn’t kill you will make you suffer for a while, move on and something else will fill the void inside. When you aren’t awake there is no need for therapy or desperate important conversations with friends.

This is the everyday life that repeats day in and day out, leaving you at the same place you started. This is the place you where you lose patience waiting for life to gain importance.

I’m waiting for that moment where everything makes sense. You know where the falling on your face leads you to something beautiful and amazing? Where you think to yourself could I really be this happy? Where you look back at the twisted path and know that it was leading you somewhere.

I feel stuck. Thankfully I’m stuck in a different place. Once again I am rereading the words I have written, look for a new meaning, analyzing the last moments when my heart was full in some hopes of putting myself back together again.

I feel like I spent too much of my last life in this same place.

I used to spend my time staring at page 38 and now it’s page 78.

Page 38 was about this constantly repeating thought that the most important events that ever happened to me occurred five years ago and I was still having my life dictated by those moments. You know the one where you fall in love with the wrong person and smash your head into a brick wall until you are so dizzy it feels like you are dancing?

I felt like that would be forever.  Like everything else, forever doesn’t last all that long.

Now I’m stuck in the significantly deeper muck that comes from true love and common everyday insanity. Page 78 is a good deal prettier than page 38 with more romantic gestures, a tornado of happy memories and the more epic melancholy that comes when you can’t have something that makes you incredibly happy, rather than the sadness of wanting something you know makes you miserable.

At first, this pain felt very similar to being awake.

Your brain has a habit of obscuring things so that the more you look at them the less you see them. After all if you had to tell your legs to take every single step, if you had to stop and think about every smell, if each and every moment was so full that the past died and the future waited, if life was confined to each footstep, inhalation and heartbeat, we wouldn’t create art, history or love.  Which is strange thing about falling in love. Everything else becomes those footsteps, breaths and heartbeats, something that occurs automatically and in the periphery of the jamboree of terror and bliss that your existence has become. But eventually you stop falling and start walking. You see less of those things that were your permanent unalterable focus. Love doesn’t end but the world returns and has to exist within its endless patterns of rise and fall, stagnation and revelation.

I have been assured that I’ll fall in love a hundred times and I’m sure that they are right even if evidence has yet to show that to be the case.  After all I was in love several times before I met her. Yet I can honestly say that thinking about those girls doesn’t cause me any pain. Falling in love is a natural chemical response to something new, exciting and attractive. Falling in love makes sense. Fucking and making love describing the same act shows how easy it can be.  So like the Raphael Saadiq song says…Falling in love is easy.  The desire to never stand up again is something entirely different.

Even page 38 feels like a total and utter child who thought being out of control wrote it and being in love was the same thing. When we subtract ho the people we loved made us feel, the fantasies we had about our future, we are often left with a web of lies we created with someone else and the end involves a lot of hatred, self recrimination and the erasure of the legend of who you were and what you could have been.  You go in search of the missing feeling and realize that the person had always been missing and the feeling mutated them to fit what you wanted.  It wasn’t like that for me. I don’t have a desire for love.

I have a desire for her.

Being open to life and breaking a thousand times was an accident. Love was just the necessary unthought byproduct of spending time with her. Of how nothing else seemed anywhere near as worthwhile.

Love can happen with anyone.

She only happens once.

My writing has never been so alive as when I lost her. Unfortunately I couldn’t hold onto that feeling of being awake and instead fell into a dream. Where I painted her picture on everything I did. From recovering from extreme anxiety to my attempts to become the Mahatma Gandhi of mental health. Everything was a love letter to what we had. And each time the picture got a little less clear, captured a little less of her until strangers felt they knew her and I stopped being able to hold onto the anguish of losing her.  I made her into a story.  I tried to limit what I was missing to the lack of a feeling instead of the irreplaceable lack of a person.

I refuse to wait until I stop missing her to find life.

This time it isn’t about love.  It’s about trying to wake up. This is for the colony of losers. For everyone who has lost something that is irreplaceable and continues to keep going. For the brave souls who’ve broken their hearts and have the ambition to keep going until they have more of their hearts to give away.

This is for you and whatever you are waiting for. To realize that everyone is waiting for something to make them who they think they should be and that whatever they’re waiting for won’t fill in the gap. So it’s time to start writing sloppily on these pages until we start saying something that makes some sort of sense.

This is a blabbering maddened call to some sort of action that I can’t begin to define. To make the time between the most important scenes in your life matter. To embrace the abundant melancholy that makes art instead of chasing the sugar scent of numbness. This is a call to use the insanity we batter ourselves with to make us something better.  To realize that we don’t know when those important moments are coming and that we can’t stop and hold our breath until that thing we think we need happens.

We don’t need to act in desperation after years of slowly waiting for ourselves to fall apart. We can use this time of pause and patience to act before we have no choice.

We are not defined by how we act in crisis. Mothers can lift cars that land on top of their children in a surge of heroic adrenaline but can we raise our children to feel loved day in and day out?  We can save our friends when they become suicidal but can we help them create a life that they want to live for? It’s the moments between laughter and tears, between kisses, poetry and pornography that we need to chase.

This idea of some great arc, of some moments that mean more, lessen the scale and enormity of every single second we live. We never have any idea of the scale of joy and sadness we create in this life.  We believe we are merely treading water, coasting along when we walk a trail of fire, smoke and thunder.

I’m a writer who for this brief moment has abandoned story and given into the horrible rambling passion of my thoughts. Just to surrender for a second and let my eyes open.  And feel something so much powerful than sense. To let something come out of me that isn’t easily decipherable, doesn’t fit into some simple message. To acknowledge the chaos that is my creation.

This for my friend who has decided to deal with his drug addiction before it brought him to a place where it could kill him. This is for another friend who disregarded common sense and chased love even if all the walls were destined to fall down. This is for my friends bravely screaming in the darkness of their own souls so that the agony wouldn’t consume and kill them but shake the very earth upon which they stand with their rage and hunger for happiness. This is for the couples that fight, scream and break shit in order to stay open. This is for all of you who battle the numbness that comes when we realize there isn’t something we are supposed to be.  This for those who make it up as we go along. This for those of you who refuse to wait until you are forced to change.

Most of us will struggle to survive when we feel like we have no other choice. The question is will we try to save ourselves before we have to.

I want to wake up and join you.

I’ll drink the shots of tequila and I’ll sing karaoke until they take the mic from my hands.   I’ll sing “Get Out Of My Head And Into My Car” until I stop being tone def and start being a rockstar.

I can’t wait for the dying of the light in a pregnant woman’s cigarette as her stepson fucks her to monotone moans in a world deranged on story.

I will wake up.

It’s been almost three months since we last spoke. A lot’s happened. I have something brewing called “The Book of Job” It’s a new long form narrative about the many fuck ups that happen between important moments. It’s pathetic, it’s interesting and it’s something completely unlike anything you have ever read before.  Be patient with me because I have a couple big things in the works and have to jump off a few cliffs before I can settle down and be with you the way you deserve to be. Know that I haven’t forgotten you and that the best is still to come.

Thanks for sticking with me.

 

 

 

 

 

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3 Responses to “Waking Up And the Problems of Pregnant Pornography”

  1. Breaking The Surface «
    September 9th, 2011 @ 8:37 am

    [...] Michael actually wrote the piece which this illustration accompanies partly in response to the image itself. We had talked a little bit about where I was coming from [...]

  2. Andrew
    September 20th, 2011 @ 11:49 am

    Damn. Gutsy and weirdly moving post- thank you, this is why the Colony is my go-to insomnia-read.
    You should check out “Reality Hunger”- the author questions the assumptions of story.

  3. angie
    October 24th, 2011 @ 10:33 am

    Its a very inspiring and great post..I really like it..Thank you for sharing..
    angie´s last blog ..Arizona Gets Inside Information on the 12 Myths of Bankruptcy – Myths 7-9 My ComLuv Profile

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    Michael Kimber is a 26-year-old journalist who suffered a nervous breakdown on November 3rd, 2009. On March 28th, 2010 when he recovered from mental illness, he began writing a blog called Colony-of-losers. About falling on your face to figure out who you are and the hilarious antics of a blond jew. What began with a few friends and his mother reading has become a cult phenomenon, averaging 10,000 views a week, receiving praise from Commonwealth Award Winner Shandi Mitchell and many others. On, November 3rd, 2010, the one year anniversary of his mental breakdown he signed with Anne McDermid and Associates, the largest literary agency in Canada. In a year he went from wearing pajamas, making his couch depression HQ to leaving his hometown for the Toronto, where he exclusively wears business suits and the armor of ancient Greeks. Don't worry, he's still choking on the feet he contently sticks in his mouth and making moments awkward just by being part of them. During these struggles he met other talented bastards and drew them into his circle. Peter Diamond became his illustrator. Patrick Campbell his video editor and part time photographer. He recently added the incredibly talented John Packman as Colony of Losers Toronto photographer. Without the support of the Colony of Losers, Michael Kimber would be nothing. Welcome to the losers and the success that comes from utter and complete failure. You aren’t alone. Follow him on twitter.com/colonyoflosersand twitter.com/quimbo. If you’d like to hire him for a public speaking engagement for mental health events in Toronto, like to arrange an interview, offer millions to publish his book or for another reason contact Michael please email him. And join his facebook Colony of Losers.

    Really obvious disclaimer:
    I’m not a trained psychologist. Just a fellow traveler. If you need help seek it from the professionals. The Canadian Mental Health Association provides a help locator. You can find crisis resources provided by the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention. If you are in the states check here. It will give you services by zip code. I’d also recommend checking out Mindyourmind.ca. I think they do great work and have been a help to me personally.

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