I am tired of failing to communicate my thoughts and feelings. Through writing I can let them slip out through the back screen door and offend nobody specifically with the weirdness of their verbal iteration. No weirdness of their verbal iteration here because I don’t have to worry about tensile jowls of the tongue tied telepathic crystal healers. Paleontology mixed with angel dust and absurd combinations present themselves out of the primordial soup of what I meant to say or what I could’ve said.
Here now in my mostly vacated room. There is a vague earthy smell. A fan blows. It is dark outside the edges of this screen, this draft box, this medium. I floated yesterday in the pesticide soaked medium of Lake Washington while watching two bald eagles gracefully swim the air currents around one and other without the panicked flailing of my featureless water treading technique. Sparrows or swallows or robins with deep blue phosphorescent backs zigzagged out from the dock on which we sat. A great blue heron held its turf along the pilings.
Then there was a camping trip the weekend before. Snoqualmie Middle Fork and the night before Tinkham campground. Weekend prior was Wenatchee Motel night with a dark walk to the brewhouse along the huge silent locomotive power of the sleeping Columbia River on its way to the ocean. These moments are gone and poorly documented. I wrote nothing to unwind the mind and make the moments real. As Pimone said. Something about how life does not feel real unless it is recorded in some manner. To record an event is to retroactively return to it and mull over it like blueprints for a new art studio. I agree. Writing down events helps me organize my mind. There are so many other things, other events, that will push this original something-or-other deep into the outer recesses where the fog settles and the memories are nothing but distant cruise ships heading somewhere-or-other and containing the physical bodies of oh-what’s-her-name and the neighborly forgetfulness of sudden decrease in cabin pressure and the metallic crunching sound of a submarine burrowing itself into an accident downwelling of tropical water — a swirling pool of beer froth where the control panel used to be.
I am ashamed of my drinking. Of my allowance for three women to control my life. Of my lack of meaningful physical exercise. Of my lack of expository writing the abstract coral reef building thoughts of my mind in the searchlight process of turning inside itself like a snail trying to explore the interiority of its own shell, or something more silly, a dog chasing its tail. I am ashamed of all the beer I drink. It is bad for my headaches and my belly. I am sorry, body, for the neglect, the emotional charges of I-5 northbound electrical storms. There are moments of vacation: because you are the sunrise beach and I am the whalebone hut. An emphasis on the immateriality of our lives in the present, as if gifted to us when we are together, is a destructive force because we say “fuck it” and toss them back like a clunking penny tossed down a wishing well. It was 11:11 two hours ago and my wish was not granted because it was for me to have another opportunity, an original relation to the universe, a new version of myself to assess myself with, and then the fuck it toss it back attitude comes on again because we are conditioned into believing it worthwhile to revolt against our better selves and to prevent the assimilation of these ideals with the steps forward toward them. To make stumps out of forests to hack away at cobwebs inside of exploring the sacred geometries of poisonous spiders.
I do not know who I am anymore. I am someone else when I am with you.