this idea contains astounding resonance

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.


List of Objects in my Periphery

Half burned sage in an ash tray. Car keys. Wallet. Lighter. A Natural History of The Senses. An observatory – a notebook full of collected little clangs of consciousness. An example: “I remember being told not to enjoy the smell of gasoline.” Wax dripped onto a framed piece of glass. A half-formed collage with blue clippings identifying sky and floral green pavilions keeping the eyes out of the cardboard backdrop. This to go beneath the waxed glass. Paintbrush. Glue. Winning lottery ticket for $2. Shotglasses full of sea shells and evacuated barnacles. Swann’s Way. A postcard from Denver. An old bass head case. Okkervil River CD. Screwdriver. Candles. Geodes from river beds. Candy corn string lights weaving all through these things, illuminates the handle of a buck-knife, a growler from Orcas. In the black window I am frightened out of my reflection, seeing him hunched and itching there, a few feet away, facing me, suspended in the second story dark outside, matching a freaked gaze. Orange in the night. And none of it matters at all when I sleep. None of it helps me dream or lighten up or feel like any more of an artist. It sits now heavy with a sleep I’ll soon bring into the room and blanket the objects with, the desk my mother and grandfather made together, all crooked canvases under my feet from perilous unfinished projects of my past. It is a kaleidoscope of unfinished


april 24 freewrite

Convulsive social anxiety is when simply talking to others becomes a self-questioning labyrinth – a negative outcome geographical map. Of the soul. Couldn’t take my eyes off you. Couldn’t keep my glass empty of red ale too very long. Couldn’t understand the language of the silent film. There was a sunny three volunteers all in silhouette, you are invisible. What do you do? It is grueling to answer that question so many times and to know what kind of reaction warrants surprise, which kind of reaction warrants a dull nod, what kind of people are happy in their stasis, what kind of coward you are when it comes down to basic fact sharing. Buried in the lies of my anxieties. Claustrophobic and blowing off a good old reliable friend for the sake of nothing particular other than caustic depression provoked in part by sad realizations and sorry socializations and the cloudy day rain and the radio station blues the thursday crews and the part time tan lines floozy and the womps the groil. Intended consequences are a fiction. Constructing arguments with children. Sleeping 17 hours. Moving furniture in my prose and my poetry. My daily life subsumed by a dross and dull glow. From the corners. From the axis. Here I spin and puke. Slam goes the compost bin. Sweet rancor oozing out into the earth. To return to our potatoes and our gallon of water per almond almonds. Agricultural waters. Hazy political secrets. Intrigue. I am interested and bored by the same things in revolutions. Here I think the water shortage is fascinating. Here I think it is depressing. Polar bears will go extinct, is the theme of one documentary, look how the polar bear lives and hunts, says another, one without slant, but to show the beauty of the world outside the city. To comfort those who feel the primordial need to return to places pre-human in order to experience some sort of consonance with the environment that exists longer than their human – name, estate – bloodline, a bloodline that exists into grandfathers who do not have the same vascular systems, the veins are not. We are river deltas in our arms. They are amoeba. Fish. Or Sky or Mountain. I am certain of nothing these days. I know I will die. There is a certainty where much of me lacks such confidence. What will I do in the mean time I ask? What do I plan to do when I graduate? Has it truly been ten years since I first tasted alcohol? (pushing it. 9 for certain). Well then the lynx distracted me, the tiger and the buzzing of something outside. Okay. I have two hours. I have been a lazy fuck. And I must needs recover my day, my life. In order to accomplish my tasks at hand. In order to move on with life and at the same time be presently infatuated with the most current work. Forever spiralling

April 11th – case study of yesterday evening’s eyes

Warm coffee swirl “the spiraling arms of every galaxy” says mewithoutyou. there is discordant music from every time I die playing in the other room but I know the song is short. I am sitting hunched with weighty sleepiness – distraction is what I call my inability to write. I am hearing windchimes and reminding myself I wanted to record them to add some real-life “found tracks” to my new music under the selfsame moniker as this white box. Will I really let my attention be so thwarted by meaningless text messages or by reckless expenditure of Vancouver concert tickets or two nights in paradise felt – or thoughts broken off mid tangent. Fuck it. Here we go with an honest free write. I’ve moved away from this page at least 8 times since I started (just now to attempt to remove push notifications from my desktop. fucking technology ruining my attempt to assess my life and mind in words unhindered)….

Now is the real point.

Fifteen minutes without pause. It is 12:35 pm on Saturday, April 11th. I will not stop typing for longer than a deliberate, thoughtful pause until 12:50. And already a minute has passed for the worth of punctuation and capitalization and other grammar photo art prints, other galleries lost and ruined and tarnished with the threadbare storehouses of the California draught, the wetlands now canyons, the felt pens sucked dry by teenagers attempting to get high, staining their teeth black and blue and green, the green of hanging angel moss, the green of the moss that grew on the frayed noose I found in the wetland sanctuary outside Union Bay yesterday evening.

Back up. I had an episode. I’ll try to describe it. I returned from a meeting with the Bureau of Fearless Ideas because I will begin my volunteer experience there next week, working with writerly kids from 6 – 18 years old and wondering when, exactly, I started as a writerly human and no longer an athletic one (but the preacher professor would say in a governmental voice that it is indeed an athletic field to get into poetry with one’s body pushing through white space like a raft slicing through thick reeds or a jet coughing its way through a fluffy cloud.) Anyway, I drove off, noting the qualities of city life in that obscure neighborhood, the top heavy tulips leaning on magnolias, the yellow red purple blue green grey great! And I came back to my apartment to find myself undermotivated. I cooked and ate too much. When my world started shifting. I wouldn’t say kaleidoscopic. Tunnel vision, a burrowing of ambition, a blurry-edged existence, where the details all formed into one kind of “outside” zoning and my own self was caught in isolation chamber. I had to lay in bed for a moment and tried to read poetry but the words scrambled themselves a bit, my eyes could not focus, they felt like they’d been rained in, and my windshield wipers weren’t working. I laid there checking my heartbeat, very fast, and my natural breathing at the time, very slow. Strange discordance of my tickings. I thrashed about internally and externally feeling like a wretched thought was trying to rip its way through my chest, this is something I’ve heard called an anxiety attack, but I did not want it to win, so I slapped myself and stripped and leaped into the shower on full-cold and gasped and shivered and huddled and rinsed and dressed and left, feeling skin-refreshed but mind-befuddled. Couldn’t help noticing the bleariness of my eyes. The inability to look at faces without feeling cross-eyed and so disoriented. “Something is fucking wrong” I kept noticing but not admitting. I did not want there to be something wrong. But something was off. I was maybe hallucinating. I don’t know. The world was normal- perhaps, raining, the friday afternoon people rousing themselves to go out and get fucked. Your choice what I mean by the verb. I mean it strongly, though. All laughter and umbrellas. I tucked into my headphones and heard my soul screaming. It was loud in my head with questions. Mostly “what the hell is wrong with my eyes?” and blinking a lot and trying to read text messages. Fear is part of it. Annoyance is another. I want to see again. I wondered to a cafe and used the bathroom to splash water on my face. My eyes look normal in the mirror. A bit milky compared to photograph in good natural light. I sat down with my head in my arms, look up at a girl in a tight red dress, and hid again, ashamed of my monster-thoughts. Ordered a beer. Drank it and felt nauseous. Do I need glasses? I left with lowest spirits. Feeling like I’m floating. frowning and staring at the ground. walking down the viaduct 45th with intent to get gin and go get rained on in a field. i picked up beer and chips and went to the wetland reclamation area and saw an egret and two wild beavers among other things, feeling wild lands cure me slowly. Today, however, my fatigue seems to represent a lingering hereafter of the initial and I struggle to define what actually happened.

It was more intense than I have described here but I’m out of time. (12:51)

thwarted suite tangerine

Snap fingers, shoot rifle. Jump bridges, gaps in teeth like the accidentals, the black keys, the notes with sharps or the wayward blues, the notes defy grid of music key, unlock, unhinge the jaw, place words on the tongue so they dissolve without water, taste the B vitamins of nonsense here in this cymbal swelling, this sad knowledge of a five year thwarted path, pah! Continue reading


Guilt for not having free-written lately is this – is a walk never taken in the park before they cut down the park, leveled it out for new pavement communities, family housing, for family houses. Tooth sore, panic attack nights, too much red ale, not enough sleep, the sunrise is slow, the apartment smells like dying christmas tree, feels cold, 60 degrees yesterday, oh global warming hooplah, or churning out ideas, nothing makes sense, no kind of outpour could inhance the flow when I am self correcting every possible thought and feeling awkwardly misplaced in my own universe, something like “do you notice what’s wrong this picture?” children’s game and they never know.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

I flew a few days ago, from Tacoma Narrows to Hillsboro. To the East we had mountains, the Cascades. Rainier first then others. Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Adams were new sights to me. The West was clouds. Shorelines of clouds buffeting the low hills, looking out for traffic, filming a fake documentary, making a spectacle of the unseen world above the low clouds, the fallen clouds, moisture and dew and water on the wing, the prop spins clear of traffic, of bogeys out there coming in from the blue, I wondered what it must have been to fight in planes with guns, to take to the air in dogfights, how ridiculous that now sounds, how awful air drone warfare might be for the sky, the atmosphere, living on after us, without us, fighting and shooting off all life… there is a sci fi story, like the poem a classmate wrote about a dystopian future, I think some of us are stuck in what we know and never try to outgrow our old selves, even if these old selves are dragging dead weight, there is a little boy in me I don’t want dead! I want his curiosity to fly my plane to write my stories, to feel the electricity of the light bulb moments of learning new things. I want to fall out of the sky every morning with specific landing instructions for the hillsboro airport, imagine the mountains to the left and the clouds to the right and the sun burned it off on the return. This is not cathartic writing. I am still blocking myself from fully flying. There is a level of anxiety, of self doubt, of waiting for the right moment, of wasted time waiting, of wasted guilt wracked time in general, of the realization, of my two month commitment to electronic music, of my shit for music production talent, of my writing on notecards and presenting nothing to nobody, of my own lack of excitement for anything happening around the sphere of my head in my life, of the judgement cast by others, then my body in space, of space itself, and my body within, internal spaces yet unexplored, places physical, taxing of the consciousness.

I’ve still said nothing. Something about airplanes and writing ghosts.

Really the hillside is still orange from the slow sunrise. No great epiphanies this morning. I am weighed down heavily by the lack of coherence.

january 4th


Bed held my head under like I was tied to cement blocks and dropped off the ferry boat between my city and your city and our cities in between that have no commerce other than parking tickets. Missed many sunsets. Dreamed of becoming a part of the landscape and about globes. Dreamed about approaching the earth from space with a globe freed from gravity floating around and the perspective photographic moment that they appear as the exact same size, lined up, my ducks in a row, lined up like checkerboard before the game starts, the fake aims its telescopic infrared scope at the real and fires, fires, and we spun it and stopped it with our fingers to decide where to land. I landed in the middle of the pacific ocean three or four times in a row, felt sufficiently drowned, and so stopped playing.

This is the last day before winter quarter. Somehow it came right up to me, noisily breathing, nostrils flaring, huge and hulking monster of a new whirlwind schedule. Hello, you monster. Your approach makes me wonder what other obvious elements I’ve missed in my drunken vacation days. My days spent horizontal in silk sheets when shoulda spent cycling through six cities. Riding through the cold and feeling the fingers crisp with frost and letting my inhibitions go when it comes to what becomes cool after talking of it one hundred times. I am filled with a certain shame. Certain regrets. I realize there is only one direction to move from the debacle of my winter break, the general lingering aimlessness of it all. I feel now as though I sat on couches with bored people, dreaming aloud where we wish to travel or eat or when to go to the new years party or when our prestige electronic duo will become something to show others – when we can exhibition… When can I? I am resolved to show as many people as many different forms of art as possible. I want to become a fountainhead. I want to cascade and delta and stream out my subconscious obligations to art, to create whenever possible, or to die in a guilt fire.

11:56 pm

anxiety rippled through my consciousness because I realized how bad I feel at French, how ill-prepared I am for the class tomorrow, how incapable I am prone to be when attacked by bears, or words, or then I thought about something earlier. Tomorrow I will run my body against words and ideas, very few current, and run my mouth over them and taste the bitter sweet roots of them and realize my smallness and the ineptitude of my brain and my bilingual education at home became nothing whatsoever, because I never practiced my bonjours or curlicues and the microscope poets will cut my sorry work to shreds because my alcoholic depression has prevented forward progress and I am sick to death of dying so slowly and so willfully with the lonely arms of giant voices so close (the bookshelf in reference) and the minds that translate sounds into images all surrounded, cloaked, in dust and the untouched fingertips of mine, and the gathering darkness when all the candlelight fades after we step backward from those two football fields, harrowing details when we encounter, directly, the physical limitations of us as the snow slope dissolves us to avalanche and our fingers cross and uncross and nail themselves up. I am nervous indiscriminately, unconditionally, and I am insecure about the future because it is now and I am not ready for now so about tomorrow how am I ready for tomorrow? (one influence on my countenance storms upstairs upset because she doesn’t like how French frustrates me and my reactions to certain things make her shut off like a flash light out of battery. Yet when bracing up against my own inadequacy, I too shut down. She must realize how her actions cause me to fall deeper into whatever frustrated despair I wallowed in. She must realize that our reactions to one another are often a tornado when words do not elaborate the emotions conveyed by posture, by silent glares, by storming upstairs and expecting me to follow and apologize, for drunken gaiety intermixed with sour regret, of morning in bed with the hanging head, the sore lower back from the chemicals chiseled into the spine, the growths on the edges of the circles, and I realize, despite her, despite her fears of the laziness she subsides within, I should replace hard liquor with marijuana and live a happier hermit, a happier artist in residence in isolation at the agoraphobic cottages.)

“So what kind of things do you write?”

“Christ, I do not know.”

“My son, my name mustn’t be taken in vain.”

“If you are the elements. If you are water. Turn yourself to wine. Let me take you intravenously.”

“As you wish.”

(quick dialogue attributing jesus as a genie… and the injection of red wine into the veins)

I will do fine tomorrow but it will make me again into a hunched over, awkward, and bitter person. I desire to meet students and befriend them and honestly wonder their lives and my role in theirs and what I’m thought of as and what a month off, a month of celebrated drinking stricken through with a lazy acceptance and fighting and removal and replacing of blemishes and loud late nights and cacophonous sleeping dazes where fight or flight mattered so much less than drink or drive and then the decisions were made and the regret is filled the cup because in my whirl wind life of work and moments of self removal due to the emotions of other, whoever other, or the influence of fountain flowing alcohol and the encouragement to drink from loved ones and the sober questioning of loved ones… it hurts the mind to wonder how much time I spent at forgetting instead of living. At bitter removal of blemish instead of distinct involvement in the scenery, in the stage make up of the costumes and the blitzkrieg. When we all could have rammed our bodies at the wall at once to make it collapse and instead smoked cigarettes and gossiped bullshit until sunrise, complaining of the weather for at least the first half hour of every conversation. What beauty kept itself hidden from my blindness.