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.
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.
the light today. the light felt right. there was something in the quality of the light. something magic in the light which gave the birds, the mountains, the green fishing boats heading home to harbor, the irises of the guests, the hanging flowers, the shopwindows a positive identifier : the green ships were aware of how perfect their green hulls flowed greenly through the reflective mountainous hemlock forests who, enjoying their participation in the scene, reflected on other stages in their growth, back before they allowed green ships to pass through their wavery watery underworld.
even the clouds seemed proudly unashamed of what blue skies they concealed. the blue skies, blissfully unaware for the moment of the infinite void of cold, soundless space only a few miles further away from them and the green ships and the hemlocks, seemed happy to engage in the harmony of light concentrated on this first day of August, 2017, albeit intermittent.
the lake was moody when the brilliant blue skies picked out patches of spruce tips and hugged their sharp branches with a golden light. I felt a ripple forming.
the red salmon. the sockeye. the mispronunciation that stuck to the history books. (sock-eye is a kind of onomatopoeia for a Coastal Salish word suk – kegh and the italics, of course, are a translation as well of a spoken-only language into the English alphabet).
the salmon seemed content in their retirement. their dehydrated red fins waving above the surface like flags of defeat. the swimming dead. the final phase change. the home stream. the magnetic influence. the biological impulse. the nutrients in the trees. the core samples. the this and the that about the salmon on this fine day. pick a metaphor and hold onto it.
the swimming dead. these fish fortunately are close to their home channel as they phase change and take on a negligent diet. however, once the circle is met, the spawning occurs, there is nothing in them to keep them alive. they must flip and flop around until death comes by claw or talon or net. their spirit warms the hibernation chambers of a female bear up above 3,000 feet, getting her ready for the birth of her litter of cubs. their spirit rides the thermals higher than the mountain peaks with an 8 times magnified binocular vision zooming in and out of the landscape and providing the energy to swoop in for another kill to feed the young. their spirit fuels a fistfight at the fisherman’s bar over a game of shuffleboard. beer spilled everywhere.
the light made everything aware of itself to me. everything seemed confident in it being what it was. today, the water and the mountains, the movements they make… occurred to me as a correspondence. a long, slow decision making process. the light opened a window into this exchange. the light led me astray in the perfect direction, the noted observations, the new realm of seeing, the opened mind in the light of its own opening, like an iris acutely aware of its height above the buttercups yet jealous of the yellow light emanating from them as reflected indirectly in the diffuse light of the jagged clouds. the clouds held the light back and handed it out liberally to everything I set my mind to today.
At night, alive in the room, there’s a dark blue feeling coming over me – it is here I make myself overwhelmed. Oh, my. You still haven’t shared any of your photos of Friday Harbor with the Others. You’ve yet to share enough of yourself. You still haven’t opened. Listen to Chopin and cry your lower back out of alignment. Continue reading
“I have misunderstood the process of making something cool as the process of making something to share.”
No. As the lady at a crafts booth told me, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your art.”
She had strewn about handmade keychains, picture frames, pastel block prints, planters.
This was 6 months ago. This is now.
I don’t know what I am doing. I am picking up equipment to record through the winter.
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
(dives into the water but makes no splashing sound)
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
(leaps back onto the bridge. runs to the garage with a sweater on).
“Here is a guy who everyone wanted to hang out with, but he did not want to hang out with very many people.”
How can this continue as such madness?
Become domesticated or share what you’ve made of your anxieties.
(with grace, if possible).
This was 10 months ago. Now I am entering music
into the S.E. Alaska State Fair songwriter competition,
though last years winner won with a song called “That’s my Mom!”
I have songs to share with you. (Mountain Lion. Profanity Peak. Northwestern Debris).
She had said, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your work.
You have no idea what kind of good it might do for someone
else. Maybe it inspires them to make art of their own. How god-damn
rewarding would that be to know you opened a stranger up
to the wonder and the joy of bringing new ideas into the world?”
Here it is. Let’s go for it.