Tuesday, November 17, 2015

i am tired.

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.

Monday, November 16, 2015

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.

stops between stations.

horseshit- misfit- the tweed of
sorrow- not a soul
to cry to- not a soul- to really cry about-
either. looking up "how to run away" on the

internet. one type-o: all the people who'd be
affected. it's not sunshine that reminds me

of them, you see- it's the weighing of pros and cons.
and i see them, skinny hesitant people
walking around, who don't know better than to
not fuck me over

even when i'm signalling to them
"fuck me over".

i've spun a gray man, in
gray mist, gray
saddle, gray-naked, gray
fists, gray loose reigns, grey neighing horse,
grey directionless, grey saunter, grey town, grey throw, grey
hair, grey penny. these

are the statues solidifying. it takes time.

grey rich boy points at the penny
because it's exotic. grey poor boy
pockets the penny, and i'm not going to

say why, because i'm the grey poor boy. there's
no need for me to explain myself.

grey goes. one of the grey boys must become
a ghost. the ghost conjoins themselves

to the other- the survivor. unspoken
blood on their hands, obviously. blood

on all of our hands, generally, also
unspoken of. that's guilt, you know. believe me.
grey goes the goose to

the shelter that's somehow
like mozambique. oh, something about myself
is waiting for

that degree of devotion, that surrender
to gravity, all out of selflessness; the kind you'd lose
all your respect for yourself if you

tore yourself away from it. the world
swallows itself for nutrients

from the center, first, learning, upon
doing so, that there's no room in the belly- it's filled
with plastic that isn't going anywhere.

we will never fully solidify, no; we must
grin and bear it.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

pull to the bullet.

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
work with,
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.
dislike them.

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

how ominous
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

any better.
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

in circles. hardly a soul
can get by them.

there's nothing in life but you.

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
enough room

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

because it is not mine.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

attack of the haunt.

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.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

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.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

numb clitoris.

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)


is only paper

at the end of the day
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
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
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

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.
bodhisattva. the
non-concept. the pre-psychology.. four
"noble" "truths"? an eight-fold path? pure-fucking
origami; the alchemist-prank. you're on your way
to the nobel prize for crazy. a lie

in life and in death. hallow'd be thy name or however
you spell "hallow'd". creative differences.
even so;

i'm looking to be an antichrist so
i chopped my head off and ate the body of
bastardized-types. drug dealers, satan. and if
they've ever seen stars, then stars, too, no matter
what star it is.

are far worse than all bad things.
that's an illusion of a sky you see. no,
seriously. you've been
betrayed, big-time. just like that.

you really
ought to re-consider the clouds. it's all up to
interpretation- sweet fucking
sugar, snuffed. the nostalgia-inspired.

more than the clouds
can grant themselves self-awareness. more than i

can cut the crap with that
psychology shit. have i ever tried? yes, of course-
it is my most intimate

i hated myself, and i hated myself for thinking
about hating myself, and i hated hating myself,

because i didn't believe in hate. an annoying
chinese-water-torture camera obscura sort
of effect, i'll go so far to say. i'd try
again, but i remember

saying, "i swear i'll never try this again."
i don't
remember why. one. two. three. silence.

a boost of self-esteem.

independent shadows. unwillingness. procrastinating
putting out fires.
the people in my life- those loved ones-
are on fire
because i'm on fire
and they were too, to begin with. what is hell?
fruits and vegetables. the paintings

i'm not painting. the books i'm not
reading. the dumbass in the
other room. my dog not having a better life
than that which he has. dreams of snot covering
bottom half of face? dreams of snot
covering bottom half of face. if i could take it

all back and re-do life? i still wouldn't realize
that it's not me screwing up and
that's that.
that's that, as in, that's hell, i mean. everything
that isn't being.

at me. have a little look-see.
depressed with numb-ass. jewelry and make-up
and socks on too. how sad, yet
doing better now then when

i went insane last. saturday night.
tsk tsk. demeter fails to kill me, neither

of us madonnas nor whores. what ever happened
to sisterhood? made-up government bullshit
for some irredeemable crumb of hope, it seems.

what ever happened to having
friends? culture tells me to do it. i have

sworn in. no culture, god fucking
dammit. i don't depend
even when i do depend, and, of course, vice versa.
read one day

without the words being so cheap
that they do not sink in.
by george. that's it. i mean, serotonin is
involved, isn't it? why, yes, then- the answer- in

plain sight- is that i don't

digest. it's just unacceptably loud around here.
unacceptably bright. i don't have enough money.
my orgasms suck. dreaming to make up for the input-
there hasn't been enough dreaming in the whole
wide world and its lifetime yet,
not yet has been called
an SOS to the empyrean- our

mediators are neglected of such privileges.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

the second day of spring.

in case i can't notice, my blog posts are growing increasingly cry-for-help, and i'm imagining "help" is a meadow of wildflowers and butterflies taller than me which i went running through during the first day of spring when i was five. i couldn't wait 'til the next girst day of spring. i waited anxiously the last day of winter with my grandmother. then it came. it was a muggy winter-like slushy day. she told me over and over this was not a mistake. this was, indeed, the first day of spring. i was surprised and as a result of the surprise very confused.
i know i didn't imagine the first day of spring. i know there will be more.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

ancient beatrice.

ancient poet to guide me through hell: sappho. back-ups: all of them. they were lyrical.
i had typed secret stuff- you know, the things you're so ashamed of because you can't help it, can't even handle reflecting on it. this, replaced by sappho. i need sappho tattooed somewhere on me. even though tattoos are mutilating, culture says they're not mutilating- everybody is jumping off the proverbial bridge so i might as well, too.
this is not a swan song. i am genuinely very disappointed with how my life has gone. i am as unokay as unokay gets with my "normal". i can't romanticize my way around this shit and if you do it's because you don't get my shit is the only shit that can't be romanticized. at most, i can liken myself to nick drake and see pictures of myself that have never happened in sepia tones. on a wikipedia page- the tribute to my status.

peaches inferno.

just putting it out there, dante's inferno inspires me- or at least, the jean-paul satre quote in my edition ("other people are hell") literally my life is hell and i hope it freezes in the center like the surprise at the end of the fucking funnel.

Monday, November 2, 2015

the slightest things guide me into realizing how depressed i am. and of course i'm depressed- i don't know how to ask for help, and i don't know how to accept it when i get it. on top of that, i don't know how to connect with the illusion of the world around me, nor is it my thing; just the world itself. and this people shit. what the hell are you all on?
it's up to me to keep up with these glorious fantasies about making changes in the world- the little engine that could, and walked out of federal court, luminous and triumphant, photo-ready, and is actually more marilyn monroe than me. i don't really want most of that. i do think it's important to make changes when i realize changes can be made.

we're hard-wired these days with a new set of values...unheard of things. so, yeah, posting close-up shots of one painting i'm working on (obviously featuring a solemn madonna girl) is a fix: that which makes up for the moment and the moment alone, as if it needs to be made up for. fixes are so fucking embarrassing, god damn them. but i'm not on the verge of suicide- and from what i've been taught, that's what's supposed to be the most important part of life.

this is how i will learn to accept: "don't judge your judging." i look forward to not feeling like everything i'm doing is screwing up superfluously. i don't believe anything i've just typed. i don't believe anything i say.
be someone
who is not me-

the flood is hot, and indeed
is all
my fault

i've tried

to wrap my head
around it. immortality?

because of a gone-time. the next ocean
is not my betrayal
of the prior