we saw a bobcat on the ridge. i do not wish to write with a clear subject in mind i wish to unravel the threaded sculpture of my thought patterns and let loose the harmonies of those strings plucked individually. no music tomorrow. listen to the rhythms of traffic in the city. regret drinking. watch a movie and be an insensitive critic. see what is there. see what is needed. where do these inflatable nights take us? what of the magnets on the refrigerator or the tears in the bedroom or the tweakers in the alleyway or the heirloom citrus or the speed of walking down the street (and about the functionality of shoes). is this comfortable to be surrounded by what you don’t own always and losing days so the gym membership has already bumped up exponentially for daily practice, only been once and, regretfully, only figured it out one time, watching birds fly in blue skies on a screen in someone’s apartment across Mercer street and babies laughing and the soft hum of moving buses moving people in doppler affect, in straight lines predetermined and chosen by the people. we are not scientists. we are philosophers with lungs. we are the living breathing engine of caregiving to the self though we are almost always bombarded and strangled and coaxed by free radicals by desires beyond the edges of skin and chemical formulas for high points retraced and reenacted like an awful play and an awful play would be to let the windows close before they were known to be open. you cannot let those bastards take you down.
early this morning there were dreams of creativity
i was stuck in some kind of rut
failing to achieve goals i promised myself and others
passive and frozen when it is required to be active and fluid
so some kind of respectable man, a teacher came by
and told me he was going to pop in to my studio
unannounced and if i was caught doing anything but writing
i would have to throw myself into the icy lake nearby
and so i got on to writing poems and songs immediately
with a head full of anxious ideations and suspense
the teacher kept popping in it seems right when i was about to give up
move on, watch youtube, waste the minutes
and so i worked furiously and dished out beautiful lines
a fluid fully healthy and creatively responsible human being
then he disappeared and i woke up
after jumping into the lake for fun.
when pressed orange juice comes out non GMO
when questioned the answer is yes
the idea pleads not guilty on all counts of mischief
there are so many other ways to say this
and they are all wrong.
in the manner of a heartbreaking work of staggering genius though with a minimized pretentiousness. i am not a hero. but i can say what i am doing is an overlooked indie gem. a reviewer’s paradise. i am writing this knowing no one reads my back catalogue. no one reads the present page. if you are reading this (96 words in) then give me a sign you gave me (106, now) words of your day. you aren’t. i know. there were tags or there weren’t and i was followed or unfollowed or the formatting was off on your tablet or the phone rang. or you liked it because the tag said anxiety or music or depression or comedy.
what i mean by mentioning dave eggers before diverted on the reality of an invisible impossible audience (you)… is that it clearly assisted him to write his stories with the injection of positivity with such a boisterous title. every page had to read against that title. it was a work of optimism and self-help and self-confidence. i do not think i have a point because i agree with max that dave eggers is a huge dork. nonetheless the semi auto biography is anxiously good. clearly an anxious creativity went through with it and decided on boisterous self-absorption over solipsism and negativity.
a college student had a chakra map in her hand. i asked her if she could tell me what kind of aura i am giving off. what am i exuding. she said orange. she said aligned with the spirits of water. she said you are elevated above most. i say you are kind but there must be some kind of mistake. additionally information my late gay uncle’s antiques collector acquaintance told me in my complexion, my eye color, my hair color, I should never wear orange and gave over four garbage bags of fancy clothes, all ill fit and there in that transaction with living strings to an uncle I never knew well and the clothes dumped without ceremony at a canoga park goodwill because i was disgusted in giving them to the ignorant sexist homophobic musicians i bedded with. so many layered stories.
the idea originally… the idea is to course through these and other writings. let little things stay little if they have a full point. let it be abstract. let it be observations with commentary. collect some of the best of these things and beginning piecing them together in a collage. call it a natural history of anxiety. intersperse weird and jarring passages with more essayistic pieces exploring the biological nature of anxiety. the necessity of anxiety. the paradox of guilt within and without.
K. said “I felt extreme anxiety for two years because I had an unfulfilling work/life situation. I went through cycles of paralytic anxiety with occasional attacks once every two weeks or so. This all mostly went away once I found meaningful work.”
Curious if there is a future in this.
Phone Line Crows
I spent the break
in the day
trying to gain the trust of the birds.
They chattered in disdain
when I spread crumbs out on the sill
pecked the bread to dust
when I had my back turned.
Saxophone music drifts
through the market.
There is a faint electric buzzing
in my head in the form of neurons
& their repeated failures.
Oh, to connect the music with a mouthpiece,
with a history and a set of lungs
and the ghostly, crowded brass
no one else can notice.
no doubt so often i am consumed by ambitions the nature of which i never follow through
oftentimes i am paralyzed by assessing atrophied past projects~
passions never given enough blood to live
a life outside a mental life.
a frozen narrative of guilt for not-doing.
example: consistent input on this website
recordings of music
restructured paper collage
writing a natural history of anxiety
running up Queen Anne hill every morning
stretching the wrecked left shoulder and strained lowback every night
saving money by going out less
there are so many better ways to live. so much of this is habit. falling into old rhythms of dysfunction and malnourishment of the mind, the ambition still there in the bright eyed reflections when looking inward, but the outside, the real, is necessarily pushed aside. the weight of a catatonic depression lingering like a wet cotton sweatshirt in the lingering cold. the winter was fucking rough. i got into a habit of self-destruction in the sense of letting great ideas (art therapy ideas?) atrophy and turn ghostly. i got into a habit of setting myself up to fail rather than succeed. change the mindset now that tulips are coming up and it snowed yesterday.
always moving through. always coursing through. stop staggering.
Hot wind gusts pull yellow leaves off undressing branches ~ the city is whooshing in the wind, all pieces hit with airborn particles – sometimes it accumulates in the corner of my eye and I have to stop and rub. Eyes like peppermints. Here at Cloudburst, I write poems because I can’t find a job, and I drink craft beer because I can’t write a poem. The wind blows across everything and everyone and connects us in our decisions to wear windbreakers.
Iron & Wine in the room of lights mentions live-tracking human-sounding music as the mission. Not that computer music is bad, he continued, we are simply not that. A level headed interview with Kevin Cole and Beam talks as soft and articulate as he sings, his singing being a direct reflective quality of who he is. With his new musical surroundings, his emphasis on “good things” as opposed to paralysis based on seeing red and labelling it as red. Writing about the acceptance and rejection of the home town.
poor sister had something established now gone or going – a house, some vehicles and a job, two dogs, a cat ~ the depressing deconstruction of a life just barely felt to be lived in. Take down the posters, move the vehicles one at a time with the help of mom, introduce the homelessness again. See: restlessness. See: lack of direction.
sleeping or searching in blue scale & perfectly so. I can pour beer or sell carabiners. I can talk caramelized oak or push clearance Patagonia. I can sleep all day and rely on the passive magic of a sent resume to do the work for me. Is it working out there beyond the offered visibility of this depressing fucking fog? Is it getting closer to somewhere? Center?
She has to pack her bedroom into boxes, I have to find a job.
She has to cancel her love, I have to close out my tab.
She rents out a storage unit, I stay perpetually drunk.
Imagining her unsettling after nesting in that remodeling home
for this amount of months is unsettling.
So I order something with a crushing hop profile
and listen to the wind thrash
the loose parts of the city around
which includes my sister & I.