Danny and Isa and the Functionality of Reliable Disfunctionability. Part I

Danny is a jew. He's big and loud. He's not exceptionally tall and not overweight. So maybe it's his hair, his nose, or his voice. But he takes up any space he's in.  Which falsely offers a possibility of flexibility to his impenetrable personality.

"Rushmore".

My dad met him in LA when Danny flew out to get more information on his scholarship to USC film school.  I watched the movie with my dad a month later.  Danny IS Rushmore.

"If you plan on working in LA, everyone will have gone to USC film school.  But if you say Harvard, that'll really shrink their testicles."

That sounded good to Danny.  So he took my dad's advice and will be moving out to Cambridge this fall to stake his claim in Harvard class of 2013.  One year after the world is supposed to end.

Isa is an Italian.  She's confrontational, loud, and dramatic.  She's ivy league. She's beautiful.  She's pencil thin with boobs and jet black hair which has, by now, given in to her will to dye it black, and now just stays that way.  She laughs at nothing and her body shakes and she glances in the mirror and approves.  She limply holds a spatula, making pancakes, reading directions from the box, falls on the counter laughing, the box of powder mushroom clouding.  She's the only one I know who can make a nuclear bomb out of a box of pancake mix.  It's two in the afternoon.  We're making breakfast.  Anyone could tell from a mile away. There are ingredients everywhere. 

She's mastered the impeccable equilibrium between pathetic incompetence and a will so strong that everything and everyone around her doesn't have a choice but to fall in line and make possible whatever the hell it is that she's passionately half-assing- which now is frying pancakes. A yippy dog goes off in her yard like a car alarm.  She leans out of the dining room sliding glass door yelling, 

"Basta basta! Steinbeck! Auhh fuck. Basta!", she falls against the curtains, her deep v-cut shirt drawing attention to push-up bra breasts heaving in her laughter, sapping the energy out of her whole body.  A white fluffy bite-size dog comes running up, disoriented, mislead, riled up.  A completely useless imbred dog.  Did I just miss something?

"I'm going to ask out Isa", Danny proclaimed, smirking and overly confident.  He has a quick stride.  He walks looking down like there's nothing in the world that would merit his sanctioned and carefully sanctified attention, nothing he doesn't know about. He tilts his head sideways to me to see the reaction.  The doubt in my face that will turn his desire into a challenge, something he can take on.  An outlet for him to prove everyone wrong.

There's no way.  Danny's the kid in school who crosses the line, who seeks and pushes the fuck out of everyone's buttons.  He talks too loud in the library. Like everyone would be doing themself a favor by putting down their textbooks to listen to him. He raises his hand in class for an excuse to bloviate his prolific, impressive, but in all ways excessive and obnoxious knowledge.  No way is Isa going to go out with that guy.  She's gorgeous.  She's Italian.  She can get any guy she wants.

"Okay", I say.  "If this is going to be done, it might as well be done right.  If you have to do roses, make them black.  If you're going to see her, make it today- it's raining.  It'll be that much more dramatic."

They dated for a year and a half. At least. Maybe more.  Before breaking up the first of many times.  We all had no idea they would last that long.  It makes so much sense though. They're perfect.

Isa loves attention.  She's never single.  She's been with boys. She's been with girls.  Sometimes in the same night.

Danny loves sex.  He can turn anything anyone says into a sexual innuendo (no, in-YOUR-endo!!). But even more than sex, Danny loves Drama. Danny LOVES Drama.  Drama loves Danny. Drama, Danny loves.

Isa yells. Danny yells. Isa argues. Danny rebuts. Isa gasps and cries. Danny rolls his eyes. Isa gets exasperated.  Danny gets a hard on. Clothes fly off. They are so in love.

A coffee and Ayn Rand

You say there are two things, maybe three, in the world and by all means, I believe you.

So why does a jet stream cast a shadow on a cloud and split it in half and make me look at everything differently knowing that everything that makes life beautiful and fun, is an illusion, not there, made up by us :put to terms by us. And beauty is not in the yarn, the carbon atoms, but in the tangles we build above it, the mass we define as another human standing before us.

Who would look outside if we couldn’t see the O2 combined with the H suspended, as a cloud ? Who would so willingly learn that love is the meaning of life if that mutating mass before us wasn’t defined by us with features and chemical happenstances tweaked to resemble individuality, purpose and intention. (and does it match mine ? Is he what I’m looking for ?)

So it’s established: nothing’s wrong that the hat you make of twists and knots is more interesting than the yarn stretched, linear. Yarn and further, the fibers. Solitary in color- how many colors are there really? Three primary and white. Would you call white a color? Maybe there are only three things in the world, maybe four. Would you call white a color?

That hat- it keeps you warm if you need it to- now it has a purpose- does that give validity to or does that degrade the fibers?

Now the only problem is up on the tip top shelf of a bookshelf. Sturdy as it is, can only be built so high until the top begins to sway and make the foundation, sturdy as it is, creek and give and pop. This bookshelf, the shelves built on each other, every one a little further from the foundation, the network of tangles and the way we connect dots, simple dots, not even round or aware of one another, into shapes and conclusions, stacked higher and higher, making pictures of the pictures of the pictures of the dots that weren’t put on the page with any initiative, any picture in mind. And every level, is an extra distraction and every level is a little further from the foundation, resembling less and less the dots we started out with.

So my question is, does making the hat, a scramble, something perceivable, definable in our eyes- we can file it off, now that’s it categorized, write it off- deem the fibers, the foundation, invalid? And can I be genuine if I say that I cannot fall in love with just a mutating mass of carbon but this thing with eyes and insides as opposed to outsides, that's something that I can love. Am I defining it, so filing it away, so writing it off? Or am I finding a way to take astigmatism, give it glasses and tell it to walk like me? (If we all agree, there's no one to tell us we're wrong.) Or have I found a way, it doesn't matter how, to fall in love with a mutating mass of carbon and derive warmth (however much twisting and knoting) from a linear stretch of fiber?

So, is it worship or degredation to create purple, vermillion and shiny gold all from three colors, maybe four? so that everyone can find there own way to fall in love.

If I do end up posting this, it will definitely be a little scary for me.The "you" is pretty ambiguous- in the beginning it's refering to a specific situation and person and then it gets more and more generalized until the specific person doesn't matter anymore...
I was at the Trident today, with Bax and ran into (insert potentially embarassing name here). Bax thinks he's a total dork. He kind of it but I like it when someone embodies something fully, no matter what it is.But I don't like it when someone embodies something in order to avoid all else.Either my love for people is not reciprocated or I expect different things than what is often given. I'm not sure which is worse.
I should leave. I really should. I don't know what's keeping me here. It's him. I don't know if I like him, or am fascinated by him or enjoy his presence. Or am I experimenting and curious and learning? I like and am attracted to elements inferred.
I love. I really do love. And the only way I know that is because I also hate. Simultaneously and always. Right now. A ravishing emotional and primal response. of love and lust and hatred and destruction. It is so strong at times I cannot distinguish between the two.God- fuck. Im dillusional. I really am. I create my reality. I live conceptually and I have reality checks and watch my world crumble and crash down in on itself. The foundation not strong enough for the bricks and the house I build above it. 
Im essentially a cave in the side of a rock face by the sea. Water flows in and out of me. But never stays. I want so bad to be happy with, to base myself on- be content with, the knowlege (the faith?) that the tide will rise again and the water will again flow in and fill me and at times suffocate me and leave me again, drying and still.
You are oblivious to me right now, sitting before me, but still kill me- more than kill me, so much more. Fill me! and leave and come again and I do not know when I will see you next. And you filling washes me clean and puts myself into terms so I can look at, understand- or not- but love myself- maybe. For this. For hosting this teeming life that you shove in me and take away as yours. I am scared by everyone of you- everyone like you. And for you, it is just another surgery. You don't know the power you have over me- the life you can give me and take away as I sit- lie- euthenized underneath you. Vulnerable, open.My strength is in that openness. I host life. And am nothing myself and in that, I create an eternity that defies- creates a devastating paradox with- my very being. But I claim as well, maybe again just host, the diastole and systole of life and of love and hate.