sharing cool things

“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.

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)