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.

 

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wild dreams

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
brief essays
paragraph poems
recordings of music
paintings
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
smoking
etc.

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.

more on this.

baby steps.

always moving through. always coursing through. stop staggering.

Green Ink # 1 – Crummy Weather

i.

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.

ii.

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.

 

iii.

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.

 

iv.

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?

 

v.

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.

making arrangements

When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by  beard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)

I am awake and alive and feel okay.

Say often.

I am alive and okay. Awake.

Repeat.

I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.

Okay, now. Wake up.

Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.

fresh prints

There used to be children playing in that window and now there are adults lighting candles and drinking wine. This has to mean something to me. Some part of the brain triggers and pitches into the conversation nothing helpful: “maybe they are the same kids grown up and the length of your depression has lasted 17 years rather than 17 months.” The other voice sips his lukewarm white IPA with an air of derision. Anyway- the window, my kitchen window, is scraped occasionally by a dead rose bush, the sound of a nail on a chalkboard, the screech of something other than a screech owl who soar, and swoop, but those roses, maybe killed by floor space taken up by hyacinths and weeds, scratch at the window like a quarter on a losing lottery ticket. Continue reading

hibernate

{originally drafted February 10th 2014)

We constantly have to make a decision between reality and oblivion. For me, this is oblivion. I exit reality in order to assuage my artistic yearnings for the production of things. Writing is oblivion because it is a rambling explanation of reality rather than the present experience of it. Reality is out there, beyond the window of my computer screen and the windows of this house. Snowflakes dangle on ribbons on that window. That is reality out there because I saw a confused young buck with enormous, growing antlers eating the brambles near the old haunted path. My life memories are out there. I could walk out there presently and put this whole writing idea in the can, exiting oblivion.

Marijuana is often a portal for people. If I am afraid or unwilling to live in reality to a full extent, I might smoke myself into the rabbit hole, from which communication with reality becomes difficult. Even now, without the guiding influence of any drugs, I am absent from reality and therefore distant from connected ties with it. I am presently absent. Gloriously vacant and ignorant of the conversations I must have with real human beings, my friends, my old beloved friends desire to hear from me in my cave, but I might hibernate awhile longer, only if my oblivion is productive, you see.

I owe many talks to many people. I owe it to myself to create. I owe it to karma to straighten this all out and balance between the absent minded daylight (however brief today, my god!) and the definitive absence while in dreams.