December 5th

Here I am 22 years old and surrounded by piles of unfinished projects. I had started these projects with voracious and determined appetite but then put it down to rest my mind and start on something else. The fire feels good to burn inside when the creativity is in the first explosive stage. This is fireworks popping over pristine glacial melt. I love the feeling of instantaneous creation especially when that comfort zone is met and entered joyfully. My worst anxiety is that I never finish anything. I move on before I can complete the task or finalize the vision I had in my minds eye for what the project ought to manifest as. Then I let time slip away and with time the vision slips away also. I look at splotchy paintings from a few years ago as sacred artifacts of that era. They are incomplete and I do not remember at all what I was going for to complete the image. Where do the colors belong? Where do the shapes? It might be inconceivable to let my current consciousness and all that I’ve learned mask over past mistakes, literally, on canvas. This is revision. It is necessary. I must not allow paranoid over-collecting control my life. I must fight my DNA. 

———–

Cosmic sadness overwhelms the other senses. I’m 22 and full of extreme lows. I over think conversations and social situations until someone is around to break the ice and for my true self to burst out from under the oppression of the frozen over lake. There is a beautiful little bird trapped in a cage with a curtain draped over and I can hear it sing but I cannot sing like it. I am lost in translation. My mind is on fire but then I become mute or inaccessible. Everyone has a story worth telling and logical explanations behind every decision and action. How boring. Tell me stories of shame. Tell me something worthy of keeping locked away for fear of tainted reputation. Let me into your narrow world view. 

Many citizens of this earth with motor vehicles (cars, namely) have a wall around their heads. I believe that some of them never feel like they are without a windshield to protect them from the real world. The implications of the trash and make up usage and wasted plates and toxic topics of conversation. 

From a practical stand point, there is nothing to see from there. 

——-

Recoiling in self horror from snakes coming out of mouths and hands shaking from overwrought iron and grizzled smiling faces of married faces with marred chassis for bodies from the tender molds of harrowing anguish, the spectacle was on and everyone seemed to feel great until my dark presence circled and I felt myself with beading eyes dashing about, incapable of approaching anyone with any questions or feeling comfortable in my own skin, this is my faulty and I hurt so bad from it because I’ll die alone. 

I went to the fox island bridge boat launch after exiting this funk, calling an old friend who did not answer, feeling like a reclusive aunt who asks if the mainland family needs help but then never returning phone calls after they scream affirmation in unison. Yes we need help YES!! I felt myself worthless until I noted the glimmering lights on the water. I look up at the void of the sky and smiled, all the miles of incomprehensible space smiled back and the industrial revolution was all for the ‘civilization’ of a speck of dust amidst a big black wasteland where there are sometimes astronomical anomalies like our planet and solar system and everything else. I sat there thinking I’m a wretched human writer because I am often unable to speak to other humans about their lives, however simpleton and mundane… ( “this smoked salmon is simply divine!” ) these are cartoon people based on wine magazines and house swap television moms, all with bright jewelry and fantastically empty dreams and hearts vacuous like the void aforementioned above in the notes section….

I am sitting and watching red and green lights dancing with the rippling water current, the rest is black. It is less than 30 degrees and very cold near the salt water. I sat in this sad loneliness but suddenly realized that I am the only person here and not many people that I will ever meet would ever stop to look at what I was looking at. This separates me from them. This view of the stars and shrouded Mt Rainier and the empty-black wave with ominous bubbles and ripples coming up, the cars with their bright head lights roaring pass me and I can hear the individual cu-clunk of each set of tires over grates, they are not waiting for pizza here and I am alone and insane in this cold, beautiful scenario. As soon as I thought ‘this moment separates me from them’ I saw a rippling shooting star over the olympic mountains and felt like someone or something had said, “Yes! You are different and amazing! You must live and teach others how to live well! You must look to the stars and waters and mountains for guidance, not to successful man. The most successful man is nothing but a hollow shell if he denies the stars.”

and I weep

 

 

 

 

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