i hope your assholes burn every time someone chooses to call you the "so-called" islamic state. as far as i know, your shit isn't islamic. it upsets me knowing our world has let its center swallow itself. furthermore, it upsets me knowing that it could've been prevented, but so many people have turned their backs from caring. they are apathetic.
i'm not sure what it is you believe you represent, but you suck, and you're totally unclear to yourself. you're the most insecure people around is what's up, if you ask me. you're phobic of your identities, so you kill people over it. that's not going to make you feel better.
i don't know how i'm to accept you, to respect you as something "in the picture". it's disgracing and i'm disgusted. i, personally, have a hard time not turning my back on you, so-called IS.
i feel mad that so many media outlets give you the attention that is your cause, as if there aren't other things happening in the world, and to the world.
and i want you to know as well that, like, you're a cult. you know that, right? you're probably an umbrella cult of many cults. your cult is a cult just like the stuff you say you're against. you hate yourself in your disconnect from the world we're in. you're indoctrinated children with nothing else to do but to hope to be immortalized for five secs. pathetic if you don't let it pass.
whoever you are, anyway- without the online accounts. who are you? either a couple of sad people or one fuck of a sorry gun. not rebels. not revolutionaries. not cool people. you do not rule the world. and you certainly do not rule me. i refuse to digest bullshit. if i am fed it, it's coming right back out. there's a lot i'm going to have to continue to rebel against.
i believe another societal infection is a stigma. it's all the widespread stuff i mean when i say "social infection". it's what's made of the same stuff people say heroin is- but it's worse than heroin. without it, you're incomplete. i mean like, really really. most of you die as a result of committing the one crime- catching this infection. the devil is in you, child. i see you. i dislike seeing you.
a couple of people throughout history have proven they've immunity to the infection just like me.
i was reading about marquis de sade in a fancy book. i knew i'd be able to read on if it was about him. i really like that he dared to push boundaries and that he had a lot of sex or something. i like that if he insisted that if he believed a way, than, simply, there was this way, so fuck you, because your way sucks. i like people that push for their values, and are intimate with their values. i like that i'd fuck him though only if he isn't ugly as fuck, which he probably was because jesus the hedonism, but there's really no telling, so i'm not really imagining his face right now. not so into the lecherous behavior. and yeah, that him and her grandpa hair that was really in for a few centuries there is embarrassing. but he was probably real and stuff. he was just corresponding to what he believed in.
the truth is he was a genetic mutation, not one anything weird. it was a fairy tale.
once there was a person that was in jail feeling like shit. because it had been ripped to shreds on several occasions, it one day died in the very old institution it happened to be in.
really believing he's the anti-christ is another close-minded opinion. like all opinions. opinions are the eyes we don't need, and have in order to see through culture- the motherfucker i'm proud to not shut-up about. but de sade- he was the rest of us, and he thought it was fucked up we get treated according to ridiculous biases that reveal the cracks and holes and discrepancies in culture. to get messed up in sugarcoated whitewashed bullshit.
de sade lived according to how he believed, meaning, effortlessly. he destroyed and destroyed, because one must destroy all but desire, and can do so simply by giving into all desires, until there was nothing left to destroy. de sade had destroyed himself. but also, consider his doing so possibly liberated a component of god from his "personal cell" and was probably a medium for some very foreign aura. there are so many of them. we are all mediums. it has nothing to do with social status or class or having a lust for crime and fucking. it is indiscriminate.
brother thought aloud, with poignance, 'the one question, it seems conclusively, that i have for nature is, "am i gonna get in trouble for not doing my homework?"'
elder sister replied, 'i just want to say to all my teachers that sucked, "ha ha the literature i read is probably denser than the literature you read. my intellectuality towers over yours and that makes me feel a little cool, a little libertine."'
"oh, look mommy! look! look!" the golden book good-shoes pointed toward a group of older kids. "real anarchists!"
"anarchists?" her brother, mister touches his balloon with wonder, turned his head.
mommy was embittered with distaste. "don't you pay those kids any mind, not in the least."
mommy knew that the anarchists had had sex.
"system! system! system!" the anarchists approached.
mommies eyes widened with panic. "kids, be good kids, okay?"
she looked toward the oncoming anarchists. "i'll come back for you." she pat her two kids on their heads before making a mad dash to a big empty house down the road.
the crowd engulfed mommies two kids with forks and knives. they emerge, ten years later, with their own forks and knives, battered like sharks. these are their battle scars they wear. "system!"
hi; i live in a park- central park- in the big city, under a bench. ummm you don't want to be here at night. that's when i wear camouflage and carry around this amazing machine gun i totally deserve, in order to avoid the total danger i'm in. organized crime and drug dealing. the type of stuff that will hush-hush your ass through history in one bite. politics be.
there's a dog hair of wisdom left still in my noodle...there are always trains arriving and departing. you never know where the air is to depart next. and so what. we too are passing with it.
i conjure up whatever motivation is supposed to look like by somehow eventually picturing an ultimate goal without placing distance being myself and itself. this is my cause:
i'm often very concerned that the people are beginning to weigh down, that everything about them is bearing this solidity, i mean, even just reflections in water. i'm afraid they'll get so heavy, like, they'll turn into statues, and they will drop beyond their threshold of gravity with the estimated force of an airstrike. on top of that, there will be earthquakes everywhere.
i want to know what i need to do in order to prevent this entirely. my name is airstrike.
my parents kicked me out, in jersey. like, south jersey. i kept winding up back and forth out of i-don't-know-wheres. for like, a while. it's still happening. i've been all over the east coast.
i look at you with terror.
this one time it was like getting murdered, everything was like prostrating in the direction of this realization, "it's like i'm being murdered." often it sticks to everything i do. i survive this all the time. my survival instincts are unbelievable, but also i question how much i want to live really.
and then like, man, i always feel like i'm ready to be killed but i also want my life to be saved. both, at once. probably by a guy. what is with that?
i am a stone so i throw stones. skip 'em across ponds, during the day. the turtles tell me to scat. they have a mafia thing going on there.
under a tree i piss.
under a tree i get pissed. because emotions spark at random for me, is pretty much why. it was because of that time that really fucked me up. that time that it felt like i was practically being murdered. geez. why must i be given "murder" to my common vernacular?
have you ever re-felt that time when you felt like you were experiencing murder? it's out there, man.
the future, today, is
an infernal grey-out. jesus is plotting somewhere, thoroughly through his old
grey eyes. this all has something to do with flat tires. the future has
something to do with a threat of dishonor. inevitably, one hobbles.
i'm not counting on much change right now (not the
kind of change i expect, anyway). it's status quo to numb out. to numb
out is to make one’s self indestructible. i. continents regaining unison after breaking apart. i was born on an island- my bedroom- filled with
stuffed animals. that chandelier that was here for most of my life was still
there. i swung from the chandelier to the neck of a giraffe, delicately
spinning a web.at one point, i kill to get a net to hang in the
corner of my bedroom, one of those to gather stuffed animals in. it disappoints
me. it's not how i expected it to be. it bores me. somehow, i believe, it has
to do with me making mistakes. nude in the jungle, i find myself swinging from
vine to vine among enormous green leaves. the world is moving as fast as the
clouds. i'm flat and uncolored. i have two beady eyes. but shamans visit me
left and right.this has something to do with jumping from
extremes to extremes, it'd later be translated into. possibly also with
spiders. also, i'm either being chased by clarity or keeping myself in motion
in order to preserve what clarity i do have.the jungle is alive, we all know. it is without
time, without memory. my focus is so bent toward one thing- that next vine-
that i don't know about anything else except superficially at most. this means
my intelligence is wasting. i extent my long arms for long enough a time
toward the effect of literally starving. ii. first world problems. i search for the american dream. all i can really
think of is norman rockwell paintings, how they're not really my thing. there's
something that seems fake about them; transparent. i give a teacher an essay
about this, how this is what is meant when people use the words “the american
dream”. afterward, i stop searching- not because i failed my essay, but because
i can't find anything else to do. i don’t know that there are walls
everywhere blocking my view.once i viewed things without faces. now my face
has been taken away, too. nobody sees each other. iii. drop your weapons. choosing to wake up now, because i don't want to
wet myself. that's a hassle. instead, i experience what's called a psychogenic
seizure, the same stuff vincent van gogh was subjected to. i see finely cut
tiny gems falling and shimmering toward my face, blinding me wherever the light
hits them, and a guy rolling his eyes at me behind them. me doing things
happens all the time. these are consequences of breaking boundaries i have, for
punishing parts of myself.i look outside my window. it is the screen of a
television set. dreams sell, but you never get them back again. pcp sells.
stuff from hollywood sells, methamphetamine and sludge sell. the internet
sells. people used to value secrecy. now we wish for voyeurs, we wish to be
watched. yes. the internet sells more than anything. i hate this funeral. everyone is still alive, slowly moving, but alive,
and yes, it does make a big difference. hair grows on these bodies, on my body,
more than i'd expected. it's silver fairy tale hair. the rejection of society
is silver fairy tale hair. there's only so much society the body can take
before we reject it.society looks like what we've made up our minds
about. stop signs. the rejection looks like what we see in one another. i see
god now that i know so. these broken tears of god are what the dirt is unable
to sop.i cradle my thanksgivings in my arms... i was into
them when i bought them. i remember liking them in the moment. we have to vow
to the moment- is there more than the moment? i remember the rush of buying
stuff, the anxiety, the fear that i might not have the money for it. the view
of myself from the security cameras.i take off my clothes because i don't need these.
i might not need the grass under my feet but i sure as heck appreciate it.
people of earth, make up your minds about what your belongings are, and
whatever they are, take off your clothes no matter what. i'm about to see
myself in you is why. every last one of you must undress in order for this to
happen. everything i have learned could be used in war, or
if i were to find myself faced with a bull who was just held in captivity in a
dark shit-hole for a week with his balls tied- i'd know how to run for my life.
all other knowledge i reject, or fold into a tiny square and forget where i've
put it. i am this bull. sometimes i imagine myself in the
dark space, going crazy in it for a week, not knowing anything about where i
am. i feel this softness, this sensitivity that's going to leave my body if i
have a say. iv. domestic chores. i have no choice but to work toward embracing an
interpretation of reality, somehow, as hell is too expensive. it's been
exhausting.from now on i spend my time judging the past- an
empty scream; a hollywood-manufactured purpose. a purpose that will never be
shared with me. without worshiping music we're left to face the
parts of us that we don't want to exist. we have to escape into the
music. v. i never pray. but i believe when i'm close to
death i will pray.
let's hit the road.
let's find ourselves able to walk around our neighborhoods as we're listening
with big pockets of ash-rain, i think of reality. when i open my eyes i see an invisible space, quiet and breezeless; unconditional space.
me and my daughter, venus, walk across dead layers of the violence of the earth- televisions, chained refrigerators, newspaper, and copper, copper rolling across the skies of cotton fields.
no longer hiding beneath the sedimentary grounds, and it hasn't been that way for a while, the center of it all- of dharma, dare i elaborate- stares at us all. nobody will ever stare back at it...
...thus human suffering is born.
boticelli reveals the human heart to itself, an unstruggling machine, that thing the gods lust after, the thing watching our conscious unsettlings.
venus divides her world. then, she rises, and we see her for her. she doesn't look like a pearl, but something about her makes it clear she is trying to come across as one. she's everything we live for and keep to ourselves. love is precious, pure innocent inviolable et cetera. pride, however, is there, too- as if she just bought her own body off the street.
venus was the center of her earth. today, she is the sun.
i am charmed by volcanos.
pompeii, year seventy something A.D. venus went to say something. she didn't know how to speak other then by spitting her tongue out. the volcano overseeing pompeii set itself on fire, admirably working itself through a rage. a cloud of pumice and so much ash exerted flexibility- flourished, bloomed itself into a world splitting open.
the people of pompeii went to grab their favorite things, things to be remembered by. rich people grabbed their jewelery and things of high money value. slaves grabbed nothing. they just ran and ran until they were underground.
shortly after the eruption of the mountain, who felt it all, people died. within a short amount of time, everyone else would die, too.
quote from a genius girl i know, "the easiest thing to judg is complacency."
venus, we have learned, is jealous. she wants to do what the people are up to. she also keeps an eye out because she's afraid of beimg hurt. these are the only times she speaks.
not being a mass of land prevents the possibility of integration.
think of the ocean and how you are seeing it. think of the sky, too.
bells are hitting me on my head. i'm not sure how i can deal with my split opinions on things. with my uneven body, how ever will i walk around maintaining a balance unless with a cane?
i am offended by my ideals. i think of flying ships and UFOs alike, dazzling wobbling things they be. and then i see them crashing into each other without realizing it. it's disappointing- what more can be said? they tore each other more painfully and more slowly than romeo and juliet.
my ideals unveiled something unromantic to me when they showed me this. and i'm happy to have seen it. i've learned that my ideals aren't ideas, movements. they're fixed, solid parts of a structure. so stuck they're halfway figmentations.
if you can't hear anything aside from fixed-pain, it doesn't mean the fixed-pain is a solution. it's an antibody. you see with it. you are not it. (i'm talking to me here.)
i have succeses. a. i'm not addicted to social media. b. i make candles. c. i take lovely care of animals. d. i like honesty. e. i like my makeup hair style of dress even when i'm all "i'm ugly" "or i'm ugly for my vanity".
this is the president of the chuck the elf on the shelf paramilitia. we hate the elf on the shelf, going around to the left hypothesizing over how we're going to make changes to america wait haha as if. america has to be willing to make changes to itself first but it's corrupted with denial.
please join my super tree house club-elf in the shelf needs to be deaded- which i am president of.
bring yourselves forward, my children.
0. my body is growing longer; i'd like it to stop. i wrap my feet in plastic and dangle them into ice water- i had seen this on tv once. it makes you stop growing- stop falling. stop embarrassing yourself. i am ice dunked in water. i have to pretend this, because i want to be in porn one day; i want to be oversexed, yes, i really think this that directly. i want to be smeared in glow in the dark halloween body paint much more than anything else. it is the same as being a baby and spitting all your food out.
this, of course, is an affair that will ultimately rearrange itself into the bottom of my mind- the very end. the top of a glacier is only ten percent of it. it sticks out of the water. it is the facade, the paraded around face. that ten percent needs to be chipped away at. the part of the mind hardest to connect to. the stuff one might as well give up on.
0. the body grays and we've decided not to leave it: "i don't want anything anymore but i continue to have it." the sky goes a hot-mustard as the heat waves emitting from the body carry themselves across it. the sand i trudge into and out of is blue, a blue i'm ruining. this landscape's bottom-half has been telling me what i am. also, has been telling me "life is a journey". when a sunset tears clouds apart along the gentle sky it's because the end of the day destroys.
0. in the distance i see my future speeding up toward me- a really fast bird. suddenly, i am two different people: the one that thinks and me.
here we have collections of land from other parts of the world we never went to and will never go to because they have changed so much that they don't exist anymore. pangea is no longer. we cannot go back nor can we go forward. not today. we cannot give to the tall rise of the sun- maybe a few generations from now, but not any time soon. we do not know anything except what we do not need to know. we are becomers which is nice. i look forward to sinking into the degeneration i see around me.
now is not the time to focus on falling in love. there is no path for it. we must bulldoze.
also, this is not a time for teaching, for learning. and there are no secrets to be kept. we reverberate our secrets without words. everyone knows we all have secrets. we can see them inside the eyes of one another. i'm not surprised by anything anymore.
the thousand yard stare: this is a wound we are in, coolly talking inside itself. everything has been done before at this point except this wound healing itself entirely. we gather inside it, cajoling it to make sense of what it is experiencing. we must dissect it.
i am now taking pictures of the vandalism under a train overpass, vaguely aware that i'm really laying belly-up on a couch. "dirty ghetto stoners". i find myself becoming calmed; being explained. there was a time when everybody knew the music did not need to change. and then, the music changed. it went on to reflect an industry.
war is a sin is what i've learned in the drums of splendor. prostitution is what it is the harp strings fluttered across my skin. most of what we do is unnecessary. the world is starving.
i'm trying to practice this acceptance, this buddhism thing, because i so want to be that way: humbled by my suffering, even inspired by it. but i am angry. my acceptance thing happens because i think too much. it drives me somewhere, but not toward acceptance... i'm driven somewhere in which things are not how they are inside, and there's nothing i can really do about it.
i don't remember what you were doing but there was something about you, in that exact moment, that made you out to be a birch tree. road signs were everywhere- but too, you. a baby tree- a baby birch, white and wintery, upright, narrow...mythical, somehow. old birches aren't around anymore, they're ghosts. they still appear because they were the color ghosts are in the first place.
they're ghosts that didn't have funerals, so they're heavier than even us. their shadows are tales of honesty, of stillness. established truths. you can walk away from such, but when you go back, it'll still be there.
i know you are still there and i know that i am still fixated on you, an old portrait of a tree that was once very little, having only a few branches. i meditate on your growth, on a fantasized growth of us together. but i'm not a birch tree. i'm not even a tree. i'm a person that continues to walk around, else, baking in the sun, letting out fumes...blindly, i set myself on fire, thinking about how i knew you once. i do know something else. i know you are still rooted in the same spot- that you are out there, that you are not only out there but you are safe.
i claim my own transparency, but i'm beginning to see a shape surrounding my body- my sense of being in a universe- i'm seeing a little better, reflected in everything else along with my failures. something is beautiful and i grew ashamed of how beautiful it was. all the waters are polluted anyway. the ghosts who are given funerals have no where to go. we are all stuck here, surrounded by these waters drowning us.
when i see the sky spread milk frothing throughout the sea, my walls soften and speak- short-bursting particles of electricity listening to new rivers. current events. i know every molecule like how i know myself. the teeth of the heavier clouds sink slowly into the surface of the skin of first my walls, then deciding if i'm next.
0. when i think of your soul i think of mine.
when the revolution takes place, it's because we've all gone insane. we are leaves set on fire, crinkling ablaze. fire spreads- fire will be alright.
i hate all of this holiday shit i've been up to recently. i feel a little too quick about myself, regarding telling the world what i want people to buy for me- and of course, i'm mostly doing this in my head- when i'm not buying for myself ahead of time. if i could get past this- because i want to be a human sacrifice for south sudan but i keep buying stuff and i stole a marker today, too. and a tea "infuser". and i'd been stealing tea bags but i've finished.
my four year old niece is a little consumerist whore.
economical needs being met require the self getting in the way of the self. cultural depression is the result of this.
i put my first advertisement out there, i mean, in the world, last night in a coffee shop i've been on and off, but mostly off, frequenting since i was a kid under the nom de guerre of "helen keller".
moods are the on-goings of one snake, one flexible colorful snake, abandoning former skins more importantly than eggs. after i doodled my little advertisement, complete with assballspenis and sperm coming out of a peach, i put it in the tiny plastic advertisement display thingie. a guy working comes along and asks what [we] did with the advertisement that was already there. there wasn't one. but someone was totally watching me shove my self-promotion into the display, which, in my head, feels extremely violating- also, i feel misunderstood, as i imagined being thought of as a rebel-rouser, when i was in fact adult-like. i died inside, or the universe did- it was black, starless- struggling to rise again throughout the following rounds of guess who. i don't think i have risen again- i don't think i died in the first place. i think a bit of me rotted off and this is what keeps happening. little stubs for the dung beetles.
edit: that pill is a dud. i can't find it anywhere on pill identifier.
dearest lou reed. i love you. i know you're dead so we're supposed to have this past-tense thing going on, but i'm still alive, in fact, and your documentation very much so continues to live on in my memory. and it's not like we had a close relationship, in the sense that we've never met on the physical plane. but we've met, or at least bumped into each other, at least once or twice, on at least a few other planes.
and if we're going to talk about life- there's something about you, that i think is very elemental, very pure, so unable to be removed from life. you lived and evolved without transmutating any rudimentary base from which you expressed. you could not even if you tried. if one is expressive of being purely alive, and nothing else, i love them. that's why we love you, us living people. if i follow the straightforward path, ever, it's not solely because i strive for honesty. it's also because of you.
i'm not going to lie- it does hurt my feelings that all these amazon people under their amazon guises find my review of metal machine music unhelpful. but i stand by what i had written- i want to be approved by you. if i did some fan-thing of squeezing some bullshit out of my ass about how metal machine music is tolerable to listen to, you'd know i'd been missing the point. i love metal machine music for other reasons. i see degeneration in the music industry, and so did you. and yeah, all that "style" stuff? i know! i don't get it, either. it's all a facade.
but not you. and not your work. and not your word. you are a gift to this world, you, among the multiverse. come taste your reverberations through my muscles.
i dreamed i was pregnant with the baby of a guy that seemed like i knew well while i was losing all this other male attention. i ruminated over the loss of male attention so badly that i didn't notice i was pregnant. perhaps this is why guys on the net were losing their interest in me.
my many eggs were passed to the belly of the father, whom i had slept with prior to the beach vacation i was on when i learned about my pregnancy. it was in northern pennsylvania. although he was irresponsible and self-centered, and had slept with many others while i was away, these were definitely our eggs, because we were meant to be together and all that. outwardly i was angry. in my head i explored baby names. honey, temple, daisy...
wednesday entails watering plants, enough laundry to cloth an army, and putting the recyclables outside. who could ever think someone who does this kind of stuff would ever feel all-by-myself? although this is valid, let's oppose it with magnified reality. yes, when i appear to myself, i see it from the angle of others, as if i care what they think about myself, as if i want to know what i look like, really. this has nothing to do with being "sick" or anything until someone tells me it does and then i feel unsick about myself- grounded, if i may.
there's a difference between being alone and feeling alone. currently, my dog is sniffing my back-end as i'm matching my mood to bauhaus.
let's discuss how i intend on putting an end to procrastinating returning my movies to the library that i borrowed recently. like, within a half hour. then i'm going to drive with sam-i-am the dog, because he's impossible on the leash.
i can identify a few things. before the last i-can't-help-it sort of mess-up, you know, the stuff that puts the scarlet "pathetic" on my breast, i couldn't exercise my breathing anymore. i felt like i was short of breath. besides, i count when i breathe, and i couldn't count anymore. "one, two, three, four, eight, twelve...fifty? fifty one, fifty three, fifty nine....one hundred?" i was drinking ten to twenty cups of coffee a day with the same meaning of alcohol: oral fixation. no, i will not listen to bauhaus' fanboy cover of ziggy stardust because it smells like teen spirit.
supposed to call people today and how does one go about that kinda thing.
will walk to the library first. will finally watch fight club, the movie. mrs dalloway was nice, as were the verbose art history books, the latter i mostly skimmed like a cheater-fake-evildoer, but i need a break. i learn that my memory and my attention suffer as much as i do.
flying ships sagging- i guess that's what people who fail
to fall further then their senses of trust allow them
see in the sky
which they believe is a car they will win. a new car.
in this sky is shouted "BE THE ONLY MIRACLE, ASSHOLE."
these stars are dead but they go on seeming to exist, at least, to me. i want a dangling carrot- persuasion is missing, off
with the silent treatment.
i guess fifteen days isn't that much. but consider, during
these fifteen days i talked about that horrible thing
that happened this one time that changed
my personality, when i learned
committing to making changes when changes
can be made
can endanger a person, and i really ought
to talk about this sometime, consider
i was surrounded by the stuff i neglect myself
of because i'm too busy
unsucessfully protecting myself from my pain, and that
this eraser-board was finally wiped: cut-and-dry,
correct and singular
path led to, being nice and stuff, tweaked
medications. "relief from nightmares," they supply, "much less torture for this poor girl who-has-been-through-so-much (et al)."
there was a heat wave who hooked into
my fish-mouth, and swam away with this,
us both- rallying- the end of the great gatsby. gatsby dies.
ebb. flow. continue working on
drawings. sleep steadily, eat steadily, know
i am reacting better then the last time. my, how i've changed
for the better...strides i've made. renounce
until it escapes the mind. hopefully-realistically not this time.
the emotional beast.
cosmic forgettings. prey
on moving on. live. live.
leave behind tragedy- faceless, it goes
without a chance to move forward.
i believe in buried hearts like this.
dear mr syndrome, i fell in love with you, that
volcanic sudden, unpredicted
sporadic type, but when i picture you
your features look deranged, you look like
the last guy but with deranged features,
who this happened to
in my head. difference: he was a dick.
frog and toad drove into the lily pads, drowning
not themselves really, just the lily pads.
ice cream had dripped everywhere is why.
there are many parts. the first one is languid- i don't feel very real- as in, i'm unable to establish my own space, or if i have, i've abandoned it, and entered a place where everything else is real, and i do not fit in it. it's a low-hanging cloud- languid, oscillating, easily perpetuated- but the way i generate the meaning of things is indirect. the math is very complicated, even mysterious. with this being the way it is, it seems very painful that life is "unfair", so i can lay down all day with my hyper-vigilance- because, if my goal in life is to just survive each moment, then i'd rather do it as a languid cloud. one rule: my anxiety may not be made visible. nobody is allowed to see my anxiety in its raw form which it fails to evolve from.
the second part is when i, as always, continue feeling unreal, but i am moving faster. it's an emotional migraine. if i move faster, my thoughts are faster, they move with violence. the id unveils itself. i disown the possible relation to anything with a discombobulating suspension. the chances of me holding myself together are really slim. and if my thoughts are faster, i move faster, except i can't match the speed of my thinking. it feels just as pathetic. the unfortunate catch twenty-two is that the golden rule applies here, too: my anxiety may not be made visible.
the demands of life don't feel any less than torturous. it feels miraculous that i can listen to music sometimes, because even the music feeds my anxiety- i would be making music if i wasn't so fucking pathetic. the demands of life are aggressive in their demanding and i too demand, aggressively, to comply. but i am blocked. i am devastated by how painful it is for me to go out there, always fucking grieving- like, "i just died again", as opposed to congratulating myself. very surface-deep thing to do. but there is nothing that comes close to the degree of demoralizing as being on display, knowing i am out, misunderstanding, and not fitting.
well, i can say, at least i don't imagine a violent death for myself anymore. no- i just imagine the breath extinguishing itself from my body. went in the backyard as it's a beautiful day and i accept it. there are tons of creative things you can do about beautiful days. i laid down under my oak tree, kali, next to the part of the earth around her where i buried that sunstone, the day hugo died. i needed to make sure things were mystical that day. making things all mystical is going the extra mile, reassuring myself that all this, all this life stuff, is a singular spirit, and that my dog dying- well, it's a good thing i grew mint and st. john's wort the same day. it's a good thing i garden in the first place, trim plants, do stuff like that.
i need to make sure if i have a say over it, nothing goes soulless.
i wondered if that sunstone is a heart now, or something involved with the earth breathing. and if i buried my ear, if i'd either hear it or destroy the process. i wondered this as i was looking at the trees in neighbor's yards. funny how they grow and reach into the space around themselves like the veins in our own bodies do.
laying down on the grass and dirt. is this my usual depression, or a temporary extreme depression? i don't know the point to reading although i try. i haven't had a meal unless it's been handed to me for months- i cannot explain how upsetting food is. there aren't words for every emotion. i know it isn't wise to try to make up for my mistakes of eating, but please, if you will, allow me some make-believe control. i thought about cookies, indeed, while i watched my new dog, sam-i-am, and his shadow, prance around the yard with his frisbee-in-mouth.
i can't believe i have something to do in a few hours. i can't believe i have stuff to do almost every day every week. i so wish i didn't have a taste for responsibility, for hoping things will make everything else brighter.
the color of the sky is a hell of an eye-opener - plainly blue. there is nothing to doubt about it. uncomfortable, because i do doubt it, i bundle up- sweater over long sleeves and sweatpants, hood over head. if i were to stick my tongue out, and say, taste the sky, it might be a little chemical- a little too good to be true. my tongue might consider its arrangements an unhappy affair, being stuck in the same body.
well, i could say that i've forgotten how to throw love or passion outside of my mind. it remains there- no. it goes into paintings, looks like jungles feeling threatened of being cut. feeling threatened by never realizing an imago- it shies away. and the moss hasn't crawled on me yet, nor has the ivy- i'm not an old, unattended-to house. i'm an empty house, a doll's house, ready when the make-believe is. i'm something irretrievable.
there's a special exception given to that which shies away; a special pass that gets you anywhere. the wish to look above the canopy- for just a second, at least. the taking it easy. i've watched myself try to get there.
and i've been told that i have to go for a drive in the car when the car is there, or whatever, sometimes, when i am at my least adequate. the things i think are dark and upsetting. i don't need more ammunition.
i don't go out there when i'm inadequate to myself. i have to appear beautiful. there's nothing wrong. look at this cowboy wearing black. it cannot be fucked with.
this having to get myself out there business, learning how to do the things i didn't learn to do as a small-thing (the child who mothers me), in order to maintain a distance from intrusive ideas- it's all a threat. it's what other people would do so they recommend it to you. i do stuff sometimes, think about it later, and find myself short of breath; unable to recover without suffering near-drownings over and over. and this making friends business- i'm really not into it, as much as i wish i was. i have no idea how to make friends without keeping them very far away. any closer, and i eat them alive. it just seems like nobody is paying attention to what seems obvious to me. i'm not sure why, but this enrages me.
and what keeps me from becoming entirely possessed by bad ideas, from going home to satan? i know i haven't come through with my obligations. i haven't gathered a compilation of correspondences with other people. some paintings are unfinished. if i could do one thing for the loved ones, i could leave behind at least putting my all into the stuff that is my all. as far as writing- it's sad, nearly tragic. i don't believe i'll ever find my own voice. what voice i come across is that composed of the stuff i pick up while feeling certain ways, remembering certain things. i give up looking for certain things and just let myself speak however it happens to come across through me.
i don't mean these wounds. i suppose i was a soldier at some point and never grew out of it.
i jump into the knives; sometimes
evil demands an answer, and resistance
is denial, and denial
makes us repeat the same words
as we circle around the
elephant in the room over and over. sweat
for the son of god, from behind the wheel
and while on the phone. both
at once. the cost of living is on me.
if these were bows and arrows we had to
we'd feel a little less defective. it's something
i think i might like to see
of myself. i can't think of much else
that'd keep me warm. this is the me
that's been in the bowels of the big
city- the forest of used-to-be. parts of me have
left it for
a little while. other parts of me have left it for good, parts
of me are still here, knowing
there's not much for me to do next- except, say,
cry, and work on
loosening the tension in my muscles. next step:
and let every wolf out there come to me.
leave them for dead. let it all
take care of itself.
walk through a desert for so long
that new accents become
a piece of cake to understand. continue to fail
to understand old wounds, though. believe i've been robbed
a lot. (i've seen it in movies a lot.) change drops from
my pockets. no matter
the cloud, capture the fluff of it. meet
the maker- the one that's in us all
and all those who hang from windows, and all those
who've jumped off railroad platforms.
if you put your head in my arms, and told me
who you were other than
who you wanted to be, i'd say
we're all roman numerals, even
your young children. having more than one
is going too far, but who would know
i'd sing your children a song, all the songs
get along. we might all
like to learn how to sing songs, and be
in one another's arms, these stranger-arms travel
wolf at the door. stamp of approval. wolf at the
door, second time. stamp of approval. eat
grandma alive and wear her brooklyn housecoat
and polka dotted nightcap. eat a child and some
cardboard prop of a hunter guy.
think from the gut.
get saved never. drink wine. find out we've been in the stomach
of a whale at the end of the day, anyway,
this whole time. there's
for an army to get parasitic upon itself.
get triggered. hold trigger to temple. massage
temple with trigger.
get forced into marriage. get forbidden
from learning anything outside
bubble-to-come, ever again. say "i accept
this," but later, take it out on children.
this nurtures the child's goody-two-shoe ways.
see the future of self
in self's mother. rule many kingdoms, ones
stolen from peaceful people. be a
hypocrite- brutalize criminals for doing
the same stuff you do. judge others
for their ways of lives, though
the way of life
is all that cannot be undiscovered. i don't
remember how i got into it, but here
i certainly am. if one can claim
that everything that goes wrong around them
is their doing, then wonder-
if everything goes wrong around me, is that
my doing? not everything goes wrong,
just everything i think about. re-lace
syntax, because everything is going to be
this way for a long time anyway,
do the stuff that's easy for others to say
easy to do. do your ears steam
with anger? oh my god, mine too. remember,
crime doesn't exist. it's only
fairytale fluff which we disagree with
and call it
in honor of trying to work away from how repelled i am by my recent works of writing, i raised all but a few of my past blog-musings from the dead. while i understand this didn't need an announcement or anything, i wanted to, in order to make a smooth transistion into announcing that my most viewed blog-thing (except one) is titled "my father likes porn". shows you what people really care about. hold back all, yee, save when surfing the web.
loneliness is humiliating. i cannot think of anything more embarrassing. anything i've ever transmitted through the internet i want to hide because i'm really uncomfortable with my lone-wolf ways recently. i don't feel open, but i'm putting on my most open. [ < ---- will add annotation if i remember what i meant by this seemingly dialectical statement ]
although there are other people in my life, my best human-friend is my therapist- and I DO NOT TRUST THAT HE IS NOT BEING MEAN TO ME IN HIS HEAD. the thing is, i can count on our relationship staying therapist and therapist's client until it isn't. whereas with everyone else, i have no idea what is going on except my "heightened senses". that's pretty terrifying for me, what with my pre-existing survival overdrive. so, i'm practically always screaming or crying at people, should people be around. this all, of course, is behind closed doors. i'm beyond awesome in public because you have to be. you have to make it clear that you're aware in order to alert the danger out there that you do not give it permission to fuck with you.
i feel pretty out of touch, what with being unable to be in touch with my own brain fully- it, written off as defective. i had made a mistake and believed it was ten years since i began medication. no. it's been eleven years.
i shared this angry sentiment all lonely-like so thinking-anything earlier. it bothers me that i can't allow my brain to breathe the way it was born because i'll be in big trouble from my medicated way of life. it bothers me that i have to watch what i say or i may be pigeon-holed into something new and invalidating. got wild imagination? got psychosis.
a protest, because dichotomies count. now there are two. two things to rub. the world is a world now. we now all have less money then what would suit ones needs and we make it top priority to go above and beyond this and someone just had to fucking say something about it so now also we all hate each other. water water everywhere, summer, fall, winter, spring, happy place. and my favorite part and everyone elses too- except secretly- is that we all know money is only paper, anyway....so stealing from the faceless isn't all that bad just because you might wind up in jail (the juries interpretation of hell) because money is only paper at the end of the day anyway like i said. everybody is into robbery. i remember being crazy like that. not like, have been there, done that, and considered myself crazy before, so that much be where i am now- not that kind of self- identified crazy. i mean, the kind of crazy where i wanted to stop thinking what i was thinking but also i didn't, but i didn't know any better. war stories up the wazoo just like you. i remember those days were just as scary as they are now, but somehow, i prefer that era of time to this one, not that i would've be caught dead saying so then. i wouldn't have been convinced.
i'm just being honest, as they say, not considering anything else:
the search for glory,
frying the commitment to the moment, like a damn blow-dryer
in a damned tub filled with water. we're damned if we do. we're damned if we don't. there's some other extreme. there's a lot that exists that we don't know- that is- if this is existence.
and i don't mean to electrify myself for the sake of anything other than discovering the gateways to other catalysts. such complements my skin tone.
naivety for us all, no matter what,
because when you move, you move forward; at least, you move on. so, as long as you're doing that, do anything else you want, as well. it takes a near-manifestation of evildoing spirits in order to rip bits of the shaman from the body. and even if this happens, it remains, discombobulated, but still spiritual on your behalf so don't freak out. is that you in the confession booth next to mine? i thought i fell i just fell in love, fucking keepsake light-switch. tame your own goddamned self. you forget where you come from? you come from the mortifying shit-hole that constitutes your unconscious mind; your birthplace. all else: now, now, now. i'm all for it. now, and nothing else taken into consideration. i am walking on my own two feet, aren't i? i demand all sorts of action take place. you wouldn't believe whose teeth have sank into my meat today and how often i didn't get what i wanted. water water everywhere. am i making sense of my surroundings and my refusal to sort them out yet?
my life is my work. the new plague i keep confined within, unable to need the help it wants. it's a bubble-life; unable to get the point across outside of itself but it means all the world inside; it makes sense. one day, it was leaked online somehow to the city of slackers. the people there become many things at once, and trust me, it is absurd. i prefer not to look at it so i feel it somehow: grey cloud through a tunnel on a rough day; information- any sort- through one ear out the other. well aren't you a surprise. and such a surprise it is that i'm not into you yet. i still wish there were more trees around; colors found in nature (oxygen). but my style isn't in style yet. recurrent trend: i have to wait for the people to follow my lead and copy my shit right after making fun of it and sometimes they take their time because they tend to be asleep or are really busy watching porn: one after another they doze off as the clitoris erases itself into a blur- theirs, or someone elses. it falls asleep as it feels outside about itself. in the backyard? yeah, fuck yeah. baby, i'm going to abandon you over and over all night long 'til the cows come home and you keep almost passing out but i keep slapping you silly on your face and your ass too and you keep apologizing for yawning and also you feel eerily numb in the backyard.