Wednesday, April 13, 2016

angel.

"angel" was rejected by a literary publication. like all submissions to literary "zines", it was probably a victim of bias.

rest in peace, angel. make love to the public entropy.

            i am born out of a tunnel into a tunnel. i feel like how i imagine a miner feels, a sense of confusion between life and death. my experience of life seems so formless, as if i'm making the half of it which i care about all up. ABC. 123. the smell of play d'oh is important.
            in my mind is where i keep my thinking, precious like a jewelry box. my thinking remains rigid, of its crystalline barriers i fail to chip away at because how beside myself i am over the perfection under the earth. i must look until it becomes confusing.            that's when my mind, tightening itself into a fist that has nothing to punch, goes soul searching- having no place to search other than itself, it goes deep inside. oh, ah; shiny.            the fist, i've noticed, is often provided a symbol of power (which never needs a symbol). power is not an autocrat; power is a golden rule. i continued to think of the same things, in the language i have yet to recognize, i just recognize the dialogue; i continue to wish for my mind the fist that thinks it owns my power to stop degenerating the way it is because i'd love to stop wishing for the same shit. giving up seems like liberation now. i see myself at six years of age thinking similarly to this, however reacting with perplexity and that's all i remember- you know how it is with children, they're busy not ruining the world with reaction after reaction; they're busy generating information then passing it elsewhere, convinced what we do is misplace. such is a defense we share, collectively- how we fear the roots of fear itself being founded in the unconscious mind because we know nothing about it- it's all guesswork- the land of innocence.            but my conscious gibberish is a real fucking peacock. well, i'm a lost cause, that's for certain; so, where is my mate? my conscious gibberish has yet to find its mate because it has to love itself first. that's not my mission, not if i can help it. it's a pretty tall order after all and as i like to hint throughout conversation i've given up on that kind of life.
            i think now; allow me to repeat what i think aloud. can't make it out. is this what not being able to think is like? what i hear when i say whatever it was i was thinking is that this is my fault; i don't love nature- i overlook the flow of organic movement to the effect that i don't even see it anymore i just see- things not touching each other, not connecting to one another- not having a chance at decomposing because things will not join, thus sparking a union, a birth, a creation. it's a reflection of my mind. how insightful am i to stay mindful of the way the mind works? the mind is a reflection that needs to be reminded of its ripples but i don't know anything about movement- i am a big subterranean hole unfocused on a hope for discovery.
            (don't listen to me- because that which i just said was bullshit.) i just need to change my habits. you know people like me. we just need to get jobs. no, real jobs. no, really real jobs. no, no, no, we're fucking it all up no matter what we're doing we just need to be bought by some autocratic all american company and then everyone in the family will say "congratulations" while clapping their hands. i got a job (not a really real one, nevertheless, note my courage of challenging myself). since i started working where i do, i've fallen back into an old pattern of playing hard to get with my anorexia except i'm not sure who's doing it with who- i think we're doing it with each other. the blind lead the blind.
            now anorexia, like other eating disorders, is exactly like the mind, when you consider that anorexia extends itself from ones brain and convinces one of what it has to say, convinces one to do what it has to say, convinces one to surrender- anorexia is the centerpiece of one’s life. move over, mind. someone else is talking. the mind, similarly, is also seemingly- and convincingly so- an appendage of the brain. as spoken prior, the mind, too, doesn't shut the fuck up about the same old stagnant shit; we are not born with our minds. the mind is a formation of one's reactions, it's a chain reaction itself; a catalogue of greatest hits; both a process and a result at once. the mind and anorexia alike are abstractions, very dark magic veiling ones interrelations with reality.
            but one just has to manhandle the somnambulist experience; just fumble while blindfolded 'til you get the hang of it and hope not to fall down the stairs. all it takes is play-pretend worshiping imaginary images, daydreaming about becoming images ourselves one day. nobody really grows up or loses their innocence- nobody really has any belief in what's happening to them because they're too busy attaching their experiences to judgments. if only we all surrendered to what i consider god. god doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't care. god's just a little boy fallen to the planet earth with a magic wand because he'd like to be a magician when he grows up, so he emulates magicians as presented to us now. he asks a lot of questions, never satisfied by the answers he receives; he's a good boy that always listens to his teachers respectfully (which is how heaven and hell were born). his feelings are constantly being hurt; he is always confused by the reactions of human animals.all the pain from destruction people feel and are so angry at god about is not something uprooted from his carelessness. he's only following what he was taught are wisdoms by his teachers. he's open to pretty much anything. he is a good little boy and i love him dearly.
            "i love nature, why doesn't it believe me?" we're in a car together passing trees. it's the very beginning of spring, the dismissal of winter's gusto, winter's reminder of our mortality (i've looked in its eyes and saw death). we generate the sight of the trees; not a single leaf in sight; they reach upward as much as they can stretch themselves.            there are some of those trees that i'm certain have seen better days- they look like life has beaten the shit out of them- you know, those trees whose trunks are split into hundreds of opposing directions, wilting with the spectral, self destructing rage of neglected houseplants; like a news headline that was all the rage a few weeks ago but hardly anyone remembers, "paris is on fire again..." feeling crushed, these decomposing trees that look like tall thorn bushes whisper as loud as they can, it's all they can do, their voices are disappearing into the invisibility of oxygen, "why don't you appreciate nature? why don't you love us?" in synchronicity, they all whisper to me and it sounds demonic. i'm so ashamed.            god looks at me. that’s all he does. his mind is forming, i notice- he's fascinated by my reaction. perhaps reaction is a sacred practice somewhere far from me and i don't know, it is true the mind does not exist without reaction- a chain reaction is the force that is all the mind is composed of.            at twenty years old he sees himself at twenty-one years of age thinking similarly to how i think now. "don't you love nature enough?" nature is everything, even believing everybody drinks. i see myself at thirty years of age this is the reaction my mind echoes: "you've turned yourself into a machine; it's all your doing!" (i don't care enough that i turned myself into a machine.)
            we must burn our souls like a pile of clothes we were raped in and go on a wild goose chase searching for the perfect cocktail of pharmaceuticals- surely, victory, therein. i wish to relinquish everything if that's what it takes to purify my mind as if such is possible.            and the clinicians are the coldest people i've ever met- i feel racist saying so because it is a blanket statement but when it's said that doctors have to be callused in order to live in luxury i'd like to say back, "luxury? they look like assholes when people emote and it's their jobs to determine something along the line of why people are emoting," and the clinicians get paid. the clinicians get paid. the clinicians get paid and paid and paid and paid like they're engaging in a coked up jazzy dance and everyone has this bug crawling under their skin just a single bug just like their clients those looneys- life begins to fail to surprise me. i show them as to not talk shit, "my body is a diamond."upon my revealing my body is a hole that was once a decomposing tree; what is all is nature. (i feel insane in the places that make me safe.)
            it's understandable a clinician bear frustration considering even they cannot get inside my mind as if the mind is a bodily organ- as if it's the same thing as the brain, like how we're trained to believe almost universally. it's not. if only the clinicians could figure me out, considering all their accolades, you'd think they just would operate immediately. how- hard- can- it- be. keep in mind, your pain is your doing. they can't figure out what to do because that's your problem.            i observe myself in my formation, still with god who has persisted to follow me around. i'm of the ages twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four; i'm of a crystal ball. in a different place in my life at each age, i appear to work harder more or less, and the subterranean hole that's my experience of thinking is still something i'm doing wrong (i feel so badly). i'm still to be blamed for the way i feel and the things i think happening the way they happened; i'm not working hard enough; not reaching high enough to touch, delicately, that shimmering virgin, the impossible standard that i so believe in- maybe i relate to it because it was passive in each and every single choice it made for itself: "they made this happen to me". i'm beginning to believe in solutions because i never did before and my structure was either broken or unknown to me. i have a solution- i want assimilation, i think this has got to be it. i need to be bought.
            i began to hunt for assimilation when in scrubs, stripped of any pride i'd had, in a big white room- yes, they exist. "fuck," i said, cursing even more than usual, reacting to stress as a teapot under pressure from increasingly extreme heat does.a clinician and walks in with her team of medical students. the clinician, rather brusquely disrupting my speaking, "we do not curse in the psych ward, young lady." (the reason i was there,) i steered the subject, (was because it was all my doing, all my fault. i admit it. i'm not doing what i want to be doing inside my mind.)
            i smile and apologize. i needed to be bought. god wasn't with me any longer. god had moved on.
            my adventures in the consumption of pharmaceuticals, how i have chosen to be bought, prove to be unstable. i gained forty pounds in three months. at the same time, i gained an epilepsy diagnosis, a migraine diagnosis, and i lost my ability to sleep. none of my thinking pain went away. i was going along with the pharmaceuticals to be pleasing to my first long-term clinician. her take on these 'side' effects: "this is supposed to happen- you're coming out of your shell!" even my parents didn't get it.
            i was a good girl after all, i didn't know how to do anything else i was so obsessed with being good- however, conversely, embarrassed. my first clinician diagnosed this, as well as my condition, altogether, with an unheard of title: "a lost little girl lost in her own little world".
            still i went on to just work harder, however i could, whatever "working hard" meant to me at the time. if one is out of reach when it comes to receiving help, one must change their life all alone. (i must assimilate).
            unchanging of bewilderment, help doesn't offer the impact of crises i have a chance to thrive off of. "just get a job," i'd hear. join the masses and my wounds will heal, like beautiful daisies erasing the memories of war. i'd be so distracted by your multi-tasking- i wouldn't...think of myself at all. (throw my awareness out the window.)
            it's my doing, my terror is. i feel the sincerity behind these words so it must be true. fingers of fascists point at me from all directions, 'this is your holocaust, you know,' these are the sickest people i know pointing my way. i know they are manipulating me, so why do i quiver with shame? can i not prevent the manipulation? am i so susceptible? yes, of course i am- all humans are.manipulated somehow though i don't know how, i see myself overworking, fixed on beliefs that i know are transient- what knowledge drives the beliefs to stay with me, bringing me down, diverting my attention from the truth that's been erased from my memory. all i know is it's my doing, my terror is.
            i'm in my body, coming to after trying to kill myself, hoping i still have a chance at death, hoping at least for the failures of multiple organs. i learn i am a criminal according to a clinician that i presume has never thought extensively about death- at least not with that nihilistic magnetism. god, how i wanted to transmigrate and bury what is this current state as a memory. here i am. the clinician sends me on a guilt trip, leaning over me like a tower not yet lit on fire. "how could you do this? come on, don't you know you have so much to live for? didn't you stop to think about your family, how it would affect them?" all i could fucking think about was how i couldn't work any harder. i couldn't get away from death. i didn't want to get away from death.            like a flower i blossomed, as i had had enough- i was beginning to get offended, facing the gods of olympia who could do no wrong, on trial time and time again- so over my treatment that i stopped bothering to explain a blow-by-blow account of the things i was doing to attend to life somehow- i didn't tell anyone immediately but much much later i wrote it on my blog that i tried to kill myself because i was way too upset over a boy and i was way too ashamed over it. but i wish not for my suicide attempt to be your climax.            what it was exactly that was limiting me so, i wasn't to be quite sure- words couldn't describe my limitations. they weren't to be all for me or anything to work hard for.            i see all of my selves ever, each reverberations of one another- nothing stops any of them from rebelling somehow, because if they don't?- their hearts will be broken when you remind them of the ways they've been reacted to before, when they stop trusting you.            trust for me is like how love is for others. i want my drug; my drug, my drug. do you know someone that's holding? the act of diving in head first changes everything. you have potential to be the universe because you are the universe-then i don't know who you are any longer because i don't handle it well; i don't handle beauty well and it's the only thing i care about. endings do happen, you know- when my myths that've protected me, seemingly- they now disappear when i need them most. i'm both naked and ugly. i think this is what happened to god, who i've yet to learn from as i perpetuate my unknowing- using it as a weapon, unintentionally.
            my brain is terror, doctor; i cry all day. i only dream nightmares. i do all of my homework, teacher, because i'm terrified of not living up to my potential fully. i'm restless, this is what has become of me.
            you look at me as though i'm protesting against your invasive procedures, doctor- as though i protest against the only thing you know how to do. of course not. i'm glad you've convinced yourself of fulfillment. i'm glad for anyone that can arrange for themself a quick fix.            i'm willing to take risks to feel like i'm walking among the other people. it hurts so badly, you understand, living does- i think because it seems as if i'm pushed away from the people. i wish i could remember, or focus. i wish i could remember multi-syllabic words.            life is all about doing, particularly, doing for causes you’d rather not- causes you feel obligated to work for. doing is a real sweetheart, an angel- pearly, luminous, glowing with shimmering fairy dust that graces the planet with its nutrients. i've been touched by doing. i am an angel sent by god with the power of the entirety of mankind, though in the back of my mind, i know equations are bullshit mocking dimensionality- i defensively abide equations (don't you?). i discern a make believe fun little handgun that can shoot anyone. the handgun appears after weeks of staring at my right hand in passive resistance against all else. the gun is mine but i don't have the balls to use it against myself. i decide what i want is to give the people a hand in warming up for their next revolution. the frequency is inevitable- the earth must breathe, right? i walk down a city street more confident in my life then i've ever been; i love this gun. i shoot indiscriminately. i don't want to listen to their noise which too is my own. my mind narrows furthermore into a tight, almost inconceivable tunnel choking itself. i continue to walk, shooting. walk and shoot. walk, shoot. shoot. shoot. my duties are pedagogic. if people are going to die from now on it's because people make weak choices- it must've made them easy to register, to discern their movements from stronger people on the city streets. in my serene angel skin i tug at my own thread- i always have had to busy my hands. the devastation of the planet is in order, i watch as i orbit the planet, so proud of my children. i'm crying tears of joy. i watch it lose itself. (i'm so proud of myself.)            i defend a recently manifested myth- the planet will be born again with words to describe my former limitations. i don't know anything else, but i am confident i will gain. i can go on now. i may float away in space now, continuously desperate- but i still do have that handgun.