Tuesday, September 22, 2015

it's the beginning of the new age.

the snake mother:

i birth all the time yet still remain ignorant of the word "egg", and its implications. i birth all the time, then habitually forget. i go elsewhere.
these are the stories of my forgotten children...

I. THE PROCESS OF ATTACHMENT (what is it doing?

(i don't know if it's exaggerating its own bubble, or if it's me exaggerating my own bubble.
)

this is my bubble. do you like?
we all need bubbles. (ignorance is bliss.)
i fear my bubble. i love my bubble.
my bubble offers protection for me.
my bubble makes me feel special.

are we in the movies? is it
a movie about bubbles? i don't know

if we're in the movies. i don't know if it matters.

don't movies end? don't
bubbles end? the world

will never know. bubble. bubble.

this is my bubble. this is my grief over
my bubble who once was.

II. A DREAM:

feeling is present. it is reality, if i am not merely narrowing in. is there anything else present
that would constitute an expansion of reality? is there a periphery? if there is, do i already know
that, but deny it? do i care? is anything relevant? i don't know if i care. i do but also i do not.

it was a smoky grey/gray evening. clouds slowly passed- wispy clouds. moon, there. somewhere between half and full. whatever. it was there is what matters. stars? oh, what a gag. never. not here.
the sidewalk glittered with night-dew.
the sound of stiletto heels echoed. otherwise, it was silent. i wondered if jack the ripper was about to bait a prostitute; if this is what this was all about.
her role was unknown.
she was a damsel in distress, but she didn't know- it was not directly self appointed. she was being in a film noir in order to survive. it made her feel glamorous. it matched the smoky grey evening in which wispy clouds passed in front of the blurry moon that was there. she wore a trench coat- one i also own, but choose not to wear. i prefer to wear drab things, stuff not worth freaking out over while dressing. right now, i'm wearing a t-shirt with a picture of cartoon people fucking on it.
in this time- during the dark, gloomy, smoky-grey evening, it was status quo for women to wear heels (it served as a signal), trench coats, and to be entirely elegant. it all had something to do with their elongated shadows speaking to them. they only dressed and walked the streets during times when their shadows were due to elongate.
i don't really know what the men wore, nor do i know their names. i'm no good at coming up with boy names. all i know is that they were gumshoes, all down and out.

the stiletto-woman went to a gumshoe's office. she wanted him to stalk something he too wished to stalk. it went like this:

(AUDREY HEPBURN IS ACTED UPON. SHE GOES UNDER A HYPNOSIS AS A BALLERINA IN A MUSIC BOX IN BLACK AND WHITE):

Q: WHY DO YOU GO TO THERAPY.

dainty answer: i go to therapy to perhaps adapt...?

Q: WHAT DO YOU SEEK TO ADAPT TO...?

"this." she replies, hazily.

Q: WHAT, PRAYTELL, IS "THIS"?

answer: "the secondhand experience (noun)- living off of the experience of that between the self and the self's ripped off experience. "that" is separation.

"DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING?" the gumshoe gets primal. "i know the separation of which i briefly spoke of has more to possess of what is supposed to be my experience than i do. i'm just going through the motions, so to speak/as they say. i'm just going through the motions and questioning my motives for going through the motions." audrey hepburn also regresses into pigtails, then transcends time with her regression into ANTIGONE (or: anti-gone).

(ANTIGONE IS NO LONGER POSSIBLE TO BE ACTED UPON; SHE ACTS.)

i don't touch things. i feel the affect of things, i take in things- but that doesn't mean i touch them, necessarily. it is no longer necessary i touch things. things are nearby. i...i suppose that's close enough. i believe things are nearby. i'm just thinking aloud. it is necessary i take baby steps and go one day at a time. that's a step that i say that, whether i was thinking aloud or not. the day is grey and also is night.
i don't know if i really know.

Q: THINGS CAN'T JUST HAPPEN WITHOUT RHYME OR REASON. REASON.

iii. a. ANTI-GONE LISTS REASONS CORRESPONDING TO THE SOURCE OF REASONINGS.

to cope, i don't touch.
i stare at the wall- it's lookin' at me. it's assertive
of me to look at somethin' lookin' at me. also, it's polite.

to cope, i've numbed from/of fullness
to cope, i'm either/or but not something else; not grey. i've got some heck of grey matter. it's a grey, grey night. some people spell grey, "gray". i spell grey gray and also grey grey.

because it has a corresponding crayon, grey or gray is a color.

iii. anti-a (b). NO. IT'S A SHADE.

all i have
is this
reality.

i do not trust it. i have
non-trust. there is

nothing to trust.

IV. (after her session with the gumshoe, anti-gone writes a diary entry.)

09/21/2015,

is this disconnect or displacement? i don't feel i am taking a part in my present life. i feel it is a non-possible act. ...nor do i seem to have a relationship, or interactions at least, with the past or the future. they have proven why i need to care, but i haven't felt it yet. i just sort of feel as though i'm hovering around somewhere. i know i'm somewhere, but the precedence is irrelevant.
i don't touch things- and since i've appeased my nation into blinding myself with materialism (the doctrine of material), i don't touch at all. my capacity for dislocation is fully invested into. my feeling is my reality...
...everything else seems really blurred out; obscure. irrelevant. this is how i function, accordingly- because my (impersonal) survival is my giving. life is something that can be touched; given to. i don't possess distinct formations of anything outside feelings, aside from many brief lies my feelings are supportive of, and supported by. however, i do not trust my feeling although feeling is what i possess. i sense that my history/experiences and my motives behind my actions lurk the way they do because they are very different than how i perceive them to be. i'm scared of the unknown like that.

although- my perception of these are weak. i sense that i take away. i believe that i take away, for- sensing is not my reality. it is not my thing. and since i don't trust my reality, sensing must be trustworthy- even though i fail to wrap my head around it.
in spite of my restlessness and willingness to become adept and high-functioning, and for my aching wish for my purposes to be trustworthy, i don't wrap my head around what is not my reality.
purpose doesn't give. it is i who generates purpose in order to know.

i don't know.

V. SYLVIA PLATH POEM (THAT ANNE SEXTON POEM?).

o sylvia, sylvia, you're a martyr, don't
you know it? you died so you could have me

to speak to. you knew with your hallmark exactitude
just what you were doing. between

us is that separation- the betweenness. i push
against it bravely, as did you. your army

of you, we do too- we try to. but part of me, the part
that is blank, vapid-eyed and between

me and my experience- could it be, the betweenness?-
is a result which follows the narrative

of you. o sylvia. sylvia.
i will always be making excuses for you.

i don't even like your poems anymore.